


In a Hurry, Don’t Wait Up

by LucyBrown45



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Language, M/M, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-05-26 23:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: Modern AU.Trying to get through one day at a time, Billy works hard. Sort of. Attempts to avoid his dad. Tries to be good. Tries real hard. He’s not sure if Steve makes this any easier or just damn impossible.





	1. i

“Hey He-Ya. That’s a dollar, buddy. A dollar.” Marcella snaps the pads of her fingers to her palm, eyebrow raised. Waits while the kid stood on the other side of the counter rummages in his pockets for coins. 

He clatters dimes and nickels down and sneers at her as he takes his pizza slice. “Watch that cheese, kid. It’s hot.” 

The boy’s friends holler out at him, “CheeZE. Hey CheeZ-It. That’s a dollar!” Dough crushed in their molars, sloshing _Fanta_ outta tall plastic cups. 

The pizza parlour is always busy after school. The kids tumble out of sport practice, Lions Club, orchestra rehearsal, and into Cesare Maggiorani’s place. Ratty little teens piling up in the squeaky white pleather of the booths, sitting on the green and red geometric printed tabletops. Marcella swats her dishrag in their direction. They’re cheeking her ‘cause she expects them to pay full price. ‘Cause this is a fucking business. 

They’re fucking noisy. 

“Easy. EaZY.” Frank raises his hands, not guilty, don’t tell pa. Swaying his hips as he approaches Marcella. Dancing. She rolls her eyes at him. He turns, points finger guns at the kids. “EaZay CheeZY.” They fall about giggling. 

Just-Frank. Call me American-made Frank. Put peanutbutter on my pizza Frank. He laughs at them. Puts his hands on his sister’s shoulders.

“You wan’ an espresso?”

Marcella folds her arms. ”No.”

“Chill, buttercup.”

“Buttercup, yah-huh? Buttercup, _gioia_?”

Frank pouts, smirk side-twitched. “You got it, kid.” He swings ‘round the hatch and pinches her side before moving behind her to place a cup under the coffee machine. 

Marcella keeps an eye on him as she hands two girls extra napkins. 

It’s too tempting, when he passes her the small hot drink. “Here. Go on break.” 

He regrets it. Twelve seconds later. Billy lumbers through the door, frogmarching some idiot in a _Nirvana_ tee in front of him. Thick forearm wrapped around her shoulders. Thick eyebrows frowning. Billy pushes the girl towards Frank. She stumbles over her scuffed ballet pumps and Billy grabs her by the belt to keep her from falling, she twists in his grip and lunges at him, elbow cocked in a weak punch. He easily takes her by the wrist and pulls.

“She owes us.” 

Jesus Christ. Frank wants to kill him. He scans Billy, watches as he rocks back on his right leg, grips his left thigh, grimacing just slightly. Frank sighs, tucks his chin to his chest. “How much?”

Billy lets go of the girl. Is suddenly very interested in a grease stain on the glass of the heat cabinet. “Seven bucks.”

He feels his cheeks go hot. Frank’s gonna rag on him for this later. Gonna tell Billy he’s a thug. Scumbag. Fuck. But that’s more than half what he earns in an hour. And it pissed him off that this prissy little punk rammed her fist into the side of the old gumball machine and shook it down for all it was worth. It pissed him off. Disrespectful little bitch. 

Billy’s tired. Down to his toes. Bones feeling bruised. He slowly makes his way into the kitchen. Sits next to Marcella. She’s got the soundsystem on, filling the place with something Euro-pop. Billy sticks the point of his tongue into the bitter dreg of her coffee and they both watch while Cez splashes flour over the workbench. She surveys Billy’s flushed face. She pinches her thumb to her fingers tips and waves the teardrop of her hand in his face. “Ali- _che_ wouldn’t put up with this.”

She grins at him. He bats her away. Tips his head to the side and quirks a smile at her. Sniffs, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose before singing in a flat too-loud monotone, “The power-” Fist pump “-of love.” Playing along with the joke. Like after a million _Spotify_ plays, he doesn’t now know the difference between Alice and Jennifer Rush. 

Marcella sniggers at him, roughs him up, pushing his left shoulder then his right. She leans back on the little wooden stool and reaches for her phone on the sideboard. Switches from 80s ballads to _Babymetal_ ‘cause she’s a fucking weirdo. 

Cez hisses. Waves his plastic tub of pepperoni at her. “ _Che cavolo_ , Marcella!” Just as Frank puts his head through the door. “Turn that shit off.” Jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Billy.” 

He’d never tell Marcella to move, not in front of their dad. But she’s good. She kisses Cez on the cheek, sorry papa. Unplugs her _iphone_ and turns the ancient little tele’ onto the _Palio_ for him. She steps out to the front. Smoothes the edges of her black hair back into her ponytail. Checking her apron for flour, slams face-first into the back of Billy.

Fucking Steve Harrington is sat in Billy’s restaurant. 

“Billy, babe.” Frank prods him in the chest, as Marcella gently pushes him by the waist, so she can squeeze past him to the soda fountain. They share a concerned glance as she picks up the ticket Frank is holding out. Marcella pats Billy on the flank and looks pointedly down at his knee. He shakes his head at her. 

Steve Harrington is here. And all Billy wants to do is smash his face in. Again. Jesus. He rocks out his left heel, stretching his calf, eyes not leaving Harrington’s smug face. He couldn’t actually do that. But, it had felt good giving Harrington what he deserved. After he took everything from Billy. After he lied.

 _Sorry, man_. 

Billy didn’t have any particular goals in mind when he finished high school. Didn’t have any high hopes. Big dreams. It would have been nice to go to college. Maybe. Learn something. Billy guesses. Or bitch about having to learn stuff while getting shitfaced in some patchouli smelling dorm-room. It might have been nice to be able to leave town. Get out of the fucking _Mordor_ that Neil creates wherever he goes. Maybe move closer to mom. Look out for her a bit. Or something.

Scouts came and they went again. Said Billy played angry. Billy fucking loved basketball. He played up to them. Stole a navy blazer outta _Goodwill_. Struggling to stuff it under his t-shirt. Mrs Taylor watching him carefully while pretending to hang up new donations. His ears going pink under her permission granting gaze. Fucking poverty porn right there. Her cherry nails idly picking at loose threads on shitty chinos, her eyebrows arched in pity. He let her stare. Let her fantasise about telling this story to her girlfriends. Snatched a pair of black loafers outta the window display and ignored her shocked gasp in payment. 

He cleaned up good. Felt good wrapped up in fake entitlement. Looked good stood next to Steve Harrington. Said all the right things. Politely pointed out his GPA, soaring over Steve’s. With determined eye contact, shook hands while Steve shuffled. But they smelt blood in the water. They knew Billy was bullshit. They clocked him as soon as he slipped into ball hogging habits. Struck him from their lists when he muscled into Steve’s space, too keen to prove himself. Nearly chewing through the gold of his Holy Mother pendant waiting for them to see what he knew he could be. Big, brave. Beautiful. Fucking anything more than this. 

They didn’t. Billy’s an adult now. Fucking ancient. Fucking numb. Basically grown and he still can’t catch a fucking break. 

_Sorry, son._

He shoves in next to Frank, their shoulders pressed together as Billy leans on the small front counter, chewing the edge of his bottom lip. Brows drawn close, staring. Frank eyes him up, tries to catch his line of sight, before his attention is snagged by a girl waiting for take-out. 

Harrington and a dorky looking kid who Billy vaguely recognises are sniggering about something. Harrington pushes his hair back with one hand. Billy remembers that hair. Dripping with sweat five minutes into a game. Slicked back wet from swimming in the quarry. Stinking of booze and crackled with blood. Just that one time. Usually though. Fucking glossy. 

Billy doesn’t notice Frank come back to his side. Ducks his head close to Billy’s ear. “You in there, bro?” He smirks. Jabs an elbow into Billy’s ribs. Billy’s face doesn’t change. He slowly pushes Frank’s hands from where they’re trying to tickle him and starts the walk over to Harrington’s table. 

Maggiorani’s doesn’t do table service. Unless maybe, if a group look like they’re taking too long to order drinks. Or. Frank shrugs, if there’s a cute girl. He presses his lips together, carefully watching Billy shuffle across the floor. Billy shouldn’t push his luck like that. What with chasing that chick down the street. Moving about. It’s going to get him in trouble. 

It takes him time. Everything takes him time now. It’s why he’s so grateful to Cez. Cez who was willing to wait for him. Grateful to Frank and Marcellla, who let him lurk near the kitchen and take the bulk of the register work. There are two screws jammed into his left knee. He’s in debt because of them. He can’t walk properly because of them. He can’t play basketball because of them. Billy’s not saying it’s Steve Harrington’s fault, but. If Billy were looking to pick a fight about it. He’d start with Harrington.

Steve looks up as Billy awkwardly levels his stance by tipping his weight onto his right foot through tilting his hip back. 

“Hargrove.”

Billy puts his hands on his hips. Fingertips tucking into the edge of the black half-apron tied around his waist. It took him a decade to cross the dining room and now he’s here, he wants a look at Harrington. He unashamedly gives Steve a once-over, from his peppermint _Vans_ to his not quite matching baby blue tee. He’s caught the sun and the freckles on his left cheekbone stand out dark. He’s wearing a thin gold band around his thumb and it flashes as he waves a hand. “Hey, man.”

He doesn’t seem fazed by Billy’s embarrassing glare and if anything this is what makes Billy feel hot. He hums low in his throat. Tips his chin up, sneers. “Harrington.”

Jesus. Harrington looks good. Like he’s spent the past year at the beach. Billy’s jealousy is fizzing slowly through his destroyed ACL, up the sore tendons in his thigh, when the kid’s voice chirps lisping, “Billy. Long time no see.” Billy cuts his eyes and turns into his peripheral. “If I pay you.” The kid props an elbow on the table and points his index finger at Billy. Billy’s going to bite it off. “Will you make me a half” He gestures a box with his hands “ _Sprite_ and half” he moves his hands closer together “ _Dr. Pepper_?”

Billy’s curled top lip, enjoying the view Harrington makes, thins out. Fucking miserable. He thinks this little shit is probably a friend of his future step-sister. That’s where he’s seen the dumb chipmunk face before. The lame trucker hat. Billy sucks at his teeth, snaps his tongue behind them. “No.”

Harrington snorts loudly, like he thinks this is funny. He lowers his head and presses his palm to the air in the direction of the kid. “Dustin’ll just have _Sprite_.” Billy fascinated by the lazy confidence of Harrington, catches sight of the modest gold watch on his wrist. Graduation present. “And me too.” Harrington clears his throat, gone shy. “Just two _Sprites_.” 

Billy tightly nods. Slides his hands into the back pockets of his black jeans before dropping them, dipping his middle finger close to his knee. “Might be a while.” He uses the edge of their table as leverage to clumsily push away. He’s not ashamed. Life is fucking mean. It’s just one of those things. But he doesn’t turn around when he hears Dustin hiss, “What happened to his leg?” 

Steve is the golden baby after two brothers and a sister. The late miracle. The glorious sunset on the Harrington family name. Living up to the precedent. Taking up all the fucking space. All the goddamn oxygen in Hawkins. Billy fucking hates him. 

He finally gets back to the counter. Shoves a cup under the _Sprite_ tap and stabs at the button. Marcella hands him straws. “You wan’ me to go over?”

He blinks. Feels rattled. Mumbles, “Naw.” He puffs air out from his cheeks. “No. I’m good.” He flashes her a smile, it’s fine, _Al Pacino_. “I’m good.”

He goes to edge around the hatch, but Harrington’s stood there. Where he’s not meant to be. Blocking the path. His mouth twitches at the corner. Turns his hands up. ‘I. Erm. I’ll take ‘em. Dustin is. Had to step away from that. For a minute. You know.”

Billy does not fucking know. He doesn’t care. He pushes the cups across the bubbled laminate surface of the counter. 

“You.” Harrington makes a funny groaning sound and Billy thinks if he asks about his leg, he really will punch him in the face. “Your. I heard you work here. From Max.”

This information is wild to Billy. “Maxine.”

“Right. Sure. Maxine.”

“You can go now.”

Steve’s forehead wrinkles. He pinches the tip of his straw. “Yeah. Listen.” His dark eyes bore into Billy, like he might find something there he’s missed or forgotten. Or wishes he could splinter-pick out. “I’m having a barbeque. On Saturday. You should come.”

He walks away before Billy can even begin to form a response and Marcella nudges him. “He seems nice. Friend from school?”

Billy fucking hates Steve Harrington.

\--

Billy went to a fête fundraiser at St Agatha’s three weeks ago. He won a mini hamper on the raffle. It had a bunch of weird stuff in he didn’t know what to do with. Cans of _La Croix_ , an expensive looking tin of black tea, a homemade jar of peach marmalade with a little chequered cloth tuck over the lid. A sweet bunch of peonies and a sachet of lavender. That he’s meant to eat, apparently. He knows this because Karen Wheeler had prodded her fingers into the basket and had dropped hints like pebbles about how Edie makes the best marmalade, has the most beautiful garden, bakes the most wonderful lavender cookies. 

He’d had to _google_ that. But, had come up trumps because a whole bunch of internet people had decided that actually instead of lavender cookies, they were just gonna chuck that stuff into vodka. So that’s what Billy did. It’s been fermenting in the fridge since then, but now it’s cold where Billy’s pressed it to his aching knee. He’s got his legs up on the couch, sat sideways to his laptop on the coffee table. He couldn’t get a comfortable angle. He’s only half watching _The Good Place_ streaming sitcom banter, taking swigs of floral alcohol every time they play out the fake curse word joke. 

Cez can always tell when they’re hungover, but Billy needs a drink. He’s zoned out. Half-heartedly palming his cock through his sweats. That kinda pent-up bored-horny. Getting steadily drunker. Thinking about Harrington and his breezy fucking attitude. Alcohol angry-turned on. Frank’s texting him, wants him to go a late dinner at some Billionaire Boys Club house. Playing fucking, _Pitbull_ and drinking fucking _Hennessy_. Girls in those tight summer dresses that show off their collarbones. Billy’s not feeling it. 

Frank is fucking messy. He’s always bringing ‘round fucking faux-Italian _Insta_ babes, parading macho in front of his dad and to piss off Marcella. What interest they’ve got in shop-bought apple-pie Frank. Fuck knows. Billy figured he must be pretty good at eating pussy. 

He boasts about it on the regular, but Billy twigs it for true ‘cause Frank has leaned in close and breathed filth Billy still thinks about sometimes. Frank’s a touchy guy. He’s always up in Billy’s space. Billy swung at him once, sick of Frank’s warm arm around his waist. His chin tucked down to look Billy in the eyes. But Frank has a boxer’s finesse, and easily struck Billy to the floor. Winded. Frank had leaned over and giggled in his face. And Billy had joined in. Let Frank squeeze his shoulder in apology. 

Harrington had done the same. Twice. Had got up close. That day in the gym, had gripped Billy’s bicep through the cheap polyester of his stolen blue jacket. Whispered, just into space near the dip of Billy’s neck. Had done it again at graduation, as he walked by Billy’s seat. Billy who had his diploma handed to him, ‘cause he couldn’t move his knee enough to get up on stage. Like they were fucking equal. Like, Harrington had the right to touch him. Like that. After Billy had cracked a plate over his head. Scar struck through Steve’s eyebrow. Even currency for Billy’s dead leg.

He rubs his thumb over the lip of the vodka bottle. The smell of the lavender is a bit much. He should probably put it away. On screen, the posh British chick in that type of St Tropez dress is arranging flowers for a party in hell or something. At St Agatha's, Billy had asked nice Louis if they had a vase he could put the peonies in. Louis had smiled a little sadly when he turned up in room 450 with a filled water jug. Billy had still thanked him. He should give flowers to mom more often. Should buy her a vase of her own. He brings his Mother Mary pendant up to his lips. 

\--

The next morning, Billy wakes up on the couch. The green corduroy rough on his face. Itchy fabric lines crisscross over his cheeks. He moans into the seat cushion. Scoots his forehead down to avoid the sunlight burning brilliant under his eyelids through the living room window. Pain ricochets out from his kneecap. In his sleep, he’s rolled over onto his tummy, he clumsily swings his leg back, avoiding leaning up on it. Jesus fucking Christ. He lies on his back, panting. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyesockets before pushing his fingers up through his hair. 

He stuffs his hand between the fold of the couch and grabs his phone. It’s still early. He shuffles into the bathroom. He’s got an appointment in town. He quickly swills water out of the faucet. Swallows his pills. His reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror tells him he looks how he feels. Wrung-out. Over-aching. He stretches his arms over his head and gets into the shower. Water icy cold. 

Georgie’s is a pretentious little barbershop that Billy likes ‘cause they’ll take their time washing his hair and dabbing aftershave delicately at the backs of ears when they’re done. He likes that the boys who work there like him. Their eyes lingering on the curves of his muscles, peeking out from his shirt. Two, three buttons left open. He likes that he can lounge in the butter leather of the vintage barber seat, sit quietly listening to Jake or Luke whittling on about their weekend trip into the city. Voices a soft purr under the shit music. _Ben Howard_ or some other bastards in moustaches. 

Billy’s lain back in the chair, letting Georgie. Head boy himself. A pretty thing, run a razor blade close to his throat. Georgie smells strongly of oud and what must be the pomade in his hair. He’s feeling real good and is semi-daydreaming about sliding his hands under the boy’s dorky. Fucking hot. Brown leather suspenders that sit snug against his chest. Sucking at his hot-water soft knuckles. Out of lazy eyes, Billy spies Neil’s car drive past the window.

His hazy reflexive back-mind barely has time to think, prick. You fucking prick about his dad, before Neil’s real-life reflection is looming in the mirror, standing too close to the startled barber. Looking into Billy upside down face and insanely hissing that Susan needs to be taken out. On a fucking date Billy hopes. And can he pick Maxine up from school. Billy thinks no. Says yes.

Georgie panders to him, mouthing off about how his own dad went off the rails about his dream to become a _fucking hairdresser_. Billy wants to wrap his fingers around Georgie’s throat, get him to go back to saying how good Billy sits for him. Get him to speak lowly, only to Billy, not twisting at the waist inviting the whole shop into the fucking hell-on-earth fuckup fathers conversation.

Fumbling out the door, Billy awkwardly tips way too much, knowing that he won’t be able to come back now. Won’t be able to fantasise about pressing his lips to the black of Georgie’s beard while he rubs his fingers over his scalp. Neil’s fucked it over for him. His one fucking luxury. 

Billy arrives at Cez’s in a fucking foul mood. Maxine tailing behind him. She’s wary of him. They’re strangers. Her mom is meant to marry his dad. Billy doesn’t think she’s fully formed an opinion on the situation. It’s too soon. 

He vaguely points her in the direction of a booth and she makes a show of getting her books out of her schoolbag. She tucks her skateboard under her feet and rocks it side to side. The wheels rippling over the worn check vinyl flooring. 

Marcella thins her eyes at him over the counter. She points at his knee. “You’re dragging.”

He huffs at her. Grips the peak of his baseball cap and twists it irritably. Side to side. She pats him on the back as he ambles past her. Pours himself and Maxine a _Coke_. 

Frank comes out of the kitchen. Punches gently. One two. With the flat of his fists in the same place Marcella’s hands just were. “Babe. You good?” He catches sight of Maxine’s head of red hair. “Ah.” He squeezes Billy’s hip. 

“Max, kid,” He calls out to her. Takes the drinks from Billy and goes to sit with her. “You being good?”

Marcella rolls her eyes at Billy. His mouth sneaks upwards into an almost smile. Marcella and Frank make Billy breathe easy. Give him breathing room. ‘Cause Billy thought that once he moved out of his dad's, that this would be plain sailing. Lemon squeezy, amigo. But Neil's always tracking him down. Seeking him out. Checking up on him. Asking him to look after the girlfriend’s kid.

Frank’s telling Max a super inappropriate story about the last date he went on. He took some unsuspecting girl to the waterpark, goddamn miles away. It was a Saturday and Frank should have been at work. The park was jam packed with tweens. She’d got sunburnt waiting in line for the slides. Max giggles at that. She catches Billy in the act of hiding a laugh. They’re California born and bred. 

Billy puts his hand over Frank’s mouth, cutting him off at the part where he’d decided that the best place to keep Sofie out of the sun was in an unlocked storage cupboard. He gets a damp, disgusting lick for his trouble. Frank winks at Max. Tells her to bring sunscreen on dates in Hawkins. She takes her straw outta her cup and flicks soda at him. He moves his arms quickly as though to tickle her and runs off, laughing as she flinches. 

“How’s school?” Billy twirls his straw in his drink. Bubbles rising.

“Fine.” Max pushes the tip of her index finger onto the top of her pen, pressing a hard ballpoint dent into the page of her math book. “How’s work?”

Billy raises an eyebrow at her. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Fine.”

She throws her pen at him, snorting a laugh through her nose. 

\--

Billy is aware that eating pizza four times a day is not ideal. But what can he do. He doesn’t have any money and Cez is a good guy, who doesn’t mind feeding him. Billy’s done enough fourteen hour shifts that he tries to remember that Cez doesn’t owe him anything, but sometimes he just wants to crack the fridge and shovel eighteen pounds of mozzarella down his throat outta spite. None of the little shitbags who hang around the parlour ever tip anything. He doesn’t blame them though, he wouldn’t either. 

Max has been joined by her little gaggle of friends. That kid with the hat who hangs around Harrington. The girl in too much eye-liner who may or not be Chief Hopper’s daughter. Something kooky there. And the others, Billy sort of recognises from around. Around town, around school, around the quarry. Hawkins is so fucking small, it would be stranger if he didn’t recognise them. 

He’s been squished in close to Max so they can all fit in the booth. It’s a slow time in the parlour. Just after the kid-rush and before dinner. Billy gets to eat his and he’s sworn Max to secrecy about him not taking her to his apartment and cooking her, fucking vegetables or something. She promised so long as he got pizza for all of them. Cez had pinched his cheek and handed over a too-big, too-much pie. Billy hadn’t wanted to sit with them. He’d wanted to go outside and smoke with Marcella. But him hobbling over, like dad with cake at a birthday party, gave him little choice but to indulge them. 

“So what did happen to you leg?”

“Dustin,” Max hisses at him.

Billy slowly chews his mouthful of four-cheese. The table has gone eerie-hush. Swallows. Says slowly, quiet, “Got attacked by a bear.”

There’s a pause and then goth-kid mini-Hopper shrieks with laughter. The others gasp at her before it sneaks into them like a virus. Throwing crust at each other and howling. Billy pushes his hand at her head. Silver pinky ring nestling in her dark curls. She grabs his wrist and still wriggling with giggles tugs herself free.

That’s how Steve Harrington finds them. He stands with his hands on his hips, humour twinkling at the edges of his lips, dimpling his cheeks. “You got a slice for me?”

\--

Billy finally gets a chance to smoke, just as the kids and Harrington are leaving. He leans against the brick of the parlour and watches as Dustin claims shotgun in Harrington’s car. Billy still can’t remember the name of the _Slytherin_ looking boy, but it’s Karen Wheeler’s son. He’s scowling and calling Dustin a dick in a high-pitched squawk. 

He lets smoke seep from the side of his mouth and feels his eyes lower as Harrington approaches him. 

“Hey.”

Billy nods, tucks his arm across his body, cigarette smouldering from between his fingers. 

Harrington twists to look at the kids throwing pointless, open palmed slaps at each other, turns back to face Billy. Unsubtly looks him up and down. “It’s pretty late. I could take Max home. If you like.”

Max is inside, eating ice-cream that Frank is spoiling her with. Billy doesn’t know a lot about children, but he reckons she won’t sleep with that much sugar running through her bloodstream. Not his problem though. 

Billy takes a drag and offers the last to Harrington. He shakes his head and Billy crushes it under the toe of his _Reebok_ hi-top. “Nah. We’re good.”

Harrington rubs the back of his neck. “I. Erm.”

He waits. Got all the time in the world for this bullshit. Watches as Harrington slides his hands into his back pockets. He’s darkly tanned and the freckles on his face stand out, even in the bug-catcher glow of the parlour’s porch. “I learnt to surf. In Rye.”

Billy squints at him. Holds tightly to the railing to get back up the stairs. Says over his shoulder, “I don’t know where the fuck that is.”

The bell jangles, cheery in tune to the sound of late-night, pre-booze pizza eaters leaking out into the dark parking lot, as the door closes behind him.

\--

Cez is a traditional guy. He let Marcella kiss his face and persuade him to release her and Frank and Billy early. To go get a drink. Just a quick one. He waves at them from the porch, tapping the pack of _Camels_ on the wall. He grabs Frank by the elbow, just as he’s about to escape. Pulls him close by his shoulder so his has to dip to his dad’s height. Cez presses his mouth to side of his head. “ _Bambino. Lui è tuo fratello._ ”

“Si. Daddy.” Frank pushes at Cez’s chest. “You know he is.” He grins, mouth cheeky and strides cocky over to where Billy and Marcella are waiting on the sidewalk. He kisses his sister’s cheek before she punches him in the arm. Looking back at his dad he tackles Billy into a headlock, mouths wetly at Billy’s neck. Billy whining about Frank’s spitgerms. 

There’s no good bars in Hawkins, but there’s The Cabana. Painted palm trees on the wall and neon pink strip lights. They play depressing nu-wave music and if they’re feeling generous they’ll chuck on some George Michael. It’s kind of a dump, but they sell _Corona_ cheap and Frank is working his way through the cocktail menu. They do two-for-one on Wednesdays.

Billy is drunk already. He’d dropped Max back to his dad’s place and that had been a fucking riot. He’s been working on getting the tone of Neil’s voice out of his head since they arrived. He’s downed a couple shots and Frank’s wandering over with what looks like an Espresso Martini and a Hurricane. 

“So, who’s that guy?” Marcella has her hand on the back of Billy’s chair. Her voice is loud ‘cause she’s tipsy. The music is playing low and there’s only a few other customers lurking. Older men, propping up the bar. Drinking the local piss-swill, Demon Dog IPA. 

Billy rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. Swallows the mouthful of rum and grenadine. Teeth flickering behind his lopsided grin. It’s bitter. “Fucking. Steve Harrington.” He slurs on the es, and spends too long on doubling up the e. He pushes the glass back towards Frank. It’s meant to be sweet. 

Frank passes him the Martini instead. Reaches over the table and smooth his thumb over Billy’s eyebrow. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples. Billy’s cheeks are flushed. He licks his bottom lip and slicks his middle finger over his other ‘brow. “Am I good?”

“You’re very good.” Frank leans on his forearm and ducks his head to sip at the Hurricane without picking it up. Eyes locked with Billy’s.

Marcella snaps her tongue at the roof of her mouth and flicks Frank in the cheek, making him sputter. 

“You know him from school?”

He told Marcella already. Billy frowns at the table. Trying not to watch as Frank absent-mindedly slips his hand into the gap the collar of black bowling shirt creates. His palm cupping his pec’. Billy feels damp in his day-old uniform tee. He rolls the sleeves up so they sit wrinkled, high on his shoulders. “Yeah. School.”

Marcella pinches him. 

“Hey. Buttercup, come on.” Frank moves his hand over the table in Marcella’s direction. She opens her mouth and let her tongue loll out, gross over her chin. 

Shakes her head vigorously. “He needs friends, Frank. Or a date or something.”

“He’s got friends.”

“The fuck-ups you associate with, don’t count.”

Billy’s head spins. He clumsily puts a hand on Marcella’s neck and his other on Frank’s knuckles. Shushes them both and half-trips out of his seat to go get more cocktails. Frank snorts at him and pats his thigh, gets him to just sit down already and takes his place. He comes back with a tray of artfully decorated glasses. Tucks a paper umbrella behind Billy’s ear and pins a glittery streamer into Marcella’s hairbun. 

The three of them crow in delight as the opening notes of _Faith_ play over the stereo. “Well I guess it would be nice…” Frank sings at Marcella. He paws at them. Drags them to the middle of the room. He audacious clutches at Billy’s hip, grinding lewdly. Putting on a show to make Marcella laugh. She tucks her arm around Billy’s ribs. His knee aches, but it feels good to pretend that it doesn’t. 

\--

He’s so drunk. “I wan’ you to eat me out.” He pulls Frank by the hair at the back of his head, tugging him away from biting at his collarbones. 

Frank quietly sniffs, “Oh, yeah?”

Billy looks at him through glazed eyes. Mouth parted. Rolls his hips against Franks. “Yeah,” he swallows. Kisses Frank on the mouth. Messy. “Yeah.” His head falls back against the toilet stall wall as Frank pushes his shirt up, nips his teeth over his chest. “Yeah, like you tol’ me.” He digs his fingertips into the meat of Frank’s shoulder. “That girl. She all wet. Fucking dripping.” Frank sucks at his nipple. Billy gasps, “Put your tongue in her-“ Frank smothers Billy’s mouth with his palm. 

“C’mon. Turn around for me.”

He feels a bit dumb. He keeps thinking, George Michael’s real name is Georgios. Did he die? He died, right? Like. Tragically. Did he kill himself? No. Georgie didn’t kill himself. Barber Georgie. The barbershop that Billy can’t go to anymore. Billy frowns. Georgie wouldn’t kill himself. He’s a fucking businessman. With a business. And a girlfriend. Fucking, dumb bitch in thick-rimmed glasses. She’s got a _Manchester Orchestra_ tattoo. 

He lets Frank fuck him ‘cause he’s got no self-respect. Apparently. And anyway. Frank’s nice. Like a brother. Billy puts his hand against the wall, to balance himself. He’s feeling a little dizzy. Frank’s going a little fast. He leans his forehead against the top of Billy’s spine. His sweat-spiked hair flapping. “You’re a good boy.” Presses an open mouth kiss there. 

Billy feels uncomfortable. His shirt is still hiked up to his armpits. He’s too hot and Frank pushed his way in too soon. He swipes a hand behind him, to nudge at Frank. He pinches Billy’s tummy. “Sorry, man.” Frank stuffs his hand down the front of Billy’s pants. Grasping, clammy. 

_Sorry, man_. Jesus Christ. 

\--

Billy managed to keep it together in the cab, but when they get to his apartment, he makes Frank walk him to the door. Latches his hands around Frank’s neck. Takes the little gold stud in his earlobe between his teeth. Wants him to come in. He’s not pouting. “I might.” He rocks up onto his tip-toes. It makes his knee burn. “I might choke on my own vomit. Or. Fall or something.”

Tittering at him, Frank lets him rub the length of their noses together. “Marcella’s waiting.”

Billy goes to kiss him, but Frank moves his head. “She can watch. I don’t.” Billy hiccoughs. “I don’t care.”

Frank takes his wrists and kisses the inside of each one. It tickles. “Go to bed, ‘kay. Babe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

\--

He’s not supposed to drive. Not really. So Billy’s been texting Frank all morning. Drinking dirty fucking _Nescafe_ and waiting for Frank to text back. He needs a lift to work. We’re going to the same place, fuckhead. When it gets so late, that the bus Billy would have to take has probably been and gone, Marcella calls him.

“You coming in today?”

“Yeah. Course. Just, ya know. Walking there now.” Sarcastic little bitch that he is. 

“Frank not pick you up?”

Cez must not be there yet ‘cause Billy can hear that Marcella’s playing music super goddamn loud. Trying to beat her hangover into submission. Something fucking trashy.

“He left, like an hour ago.” She hums. “To pick you up.” 

It’s _Avenge Sevenfold_. Is that something people like Marcella still appreciate. Boys in skull bandanas. Screaming. Billy flicks his lighter. Blows smoke in a thin plume. Taps his cigarette on the edge of an old saucer on the kitchen table. “Look, just tell Cez my leg hurts or something.”

“Your leg does hurt.”

Billy hangs up on her. Cigarette bobbing on his bottom lip, he wrangles open his pill bottle. 

Frank’s being a dick and Billy’s feeling pretty shit about himself. It didn’t. It’s not fucking incest. He didn’t mean it like that. He just. Fuck. He wants to go to the gym. Wants to ache in a good way. Muscles heated with exhaustion around the good kinda stretch. Wants to fucking go running or play basketball. Just wants to be able to walk to the bathroom and back without nearly crying. 

He checks his phone. Sighs. Runs a cold bath. 

He’s sat in the shallow water, leg stretched out, massaging the side of his knee with the pad of his hand. He’s got George Michael’s _wiki_ open on his phone. Poor bastard. _Facebook_ notifications are telling him that Frank is getting high with some asshole in the fucking vegan café a town over. They serve avocado on toast and fucking. Salted caramel coconut milkshakes. Fucking gay.

Fuck. Billy tips back into the water. Lets his head float, with his ears just under the surface, so his hair sprawls kelpy, blonde around him. He stiffly keeps his arms up so his phone is out of danger. He scrolls through _Twitter_. Marcella is vague-bitching about having colleagues who don’t do any fucking work. 

He puts his necklace in his mouth. Metal sharp tang. Feels bad for about half a second before deciding that this is definitely Frank’s fault. He presses the home button. Pauses. Types ‘Rye’ into _google_. He gets a bunch of results about bread. He rolls his eyes. He types. Rye Surfing. 

Steve Harrington apparently learnt to surf in New Hampshire. Of all fucking places. 

\--

Billy’s cash-flow problem might be the result of the amount of skin-care products he buys. Or just the state of the fucking economy. Either way. His routine is rigorous. Rubbing something springtime earth-smelling he got online, into his elbows, he’s feeling pretty swell. Fucking drunk shopping, but kinda worth it. The drugs have kicked in and his long bath has left his skin pruney, but his head fresh. 

He’s standing in the hallway in a tank and jersey shorts. Swigging orange juice outta the carton, he stares at the crutch the hospital gave him. He should take it with him. 

A couple of blocks away from Billy’s apartment complex there’s a strip mall. It’s got a _Savers_ and a laundromat. A bakery that sells some serious _Ace of Cakes_ shit. The _Kroger_ that Billy get his prescription filled at. But it’s the _McDonald’s_ that he’s hankering after. Getting there, means he has to attempt to safely navigate his way over the thoroughfare, but he’s willing to risk it.

\--

Billy’s knee is fucking killing him. Like his kneecap is about to slide out from under the skin. He desperately wants to sit down, but he’s in line now. Waiting for some bozo in front to make his mind up on whether he wants apple slices in the _Happy Meals_ he’s buying. Billy wants to yell at him that no kid will ever want fucking apple slices and nobody fucking cares about this dilemma. 

All dads are shit. Fries or no fries.

He wishes he’d brought the crutch. Billy decides he’s going to get a quarter pounder with cheese and chicken nuggets. And a hot fudge sundae and whatever the fuck an iced turtle macchiato is. 

“Billy.”

He turns cautiously at the sound of his name behind him. “Harrington.”

Steve pushes his _Ray-Bans_ to sit on his head, bangs sticking out at odd angles. He looks fucking relaxed. Flip-flops on, thin _Fred Perry_ polo accentuating his new muscle bulk. 

Billy gives up. “Listen, man. Can you get me just a bunch of stuff. Just whatever. ‘kay?” He rummages through his wallet, shoves dollar bills into Steve’s hand. “I’ve gotta-“ He rubs the pads of his fingers over his mouth. Anxiously bites down on his pinky ring. “I’m gonna.” He stumbles, grabs the edge of a near-by table and using the chairs within arms’ reach, noisily, blearily makes his way to the back of the restaurant to sit the fuck down.

“Sure.”

He props his leg up on the chair opposite and finally feels some relief. His pulls his cap off and runs his hand through his hair. Tugs it back on facing backwards. He breathes loudly through his mouth and relishes in noticing how cool it is inside compared the gruelling walk from home. Skin goosepimpling. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there for before Steve is setting down an avalanching food tray. He begins unloading it, arranging cardboard boxes. “Chicken nuggets. Bacon cheese. _Big Mac_.” He grins at Billy. “Apple pie. _Oreo McFlurry_. Fries.” He puts the tray on the table behind him. “Chocolate milkshake, ice tea. And I dunno. Wild cards. Here.” He shuffles the load to make more room. “ _Fillet-O-Fish_. Iced caramel latte.”

Billy’s a little bit horrified in that he seems to have managed to get himself into a lunch date. Or whatever meal it is at three in the afternoon. With Steve Harrington. “Right. Thanks.”

Steve’s grin wilts a little, but he takes a huge bite of his burger. Billy pinches a chicken nugget between his index finger and thumb. Steve passes him a ketchup packet. “You. Er. See the _Warriors_ win?”

“Yep.”

They eat in silence after that. As Billy’s draining the last of the coffee, he frowns. “Don’t you have babysitting duty?”

“Don’t you?”

Billy’s eyes widen slightly. “Hmm.” He looks out the window, squints. “My leg hurts.”

“Convenient.” Steve’s voice is quiet, but it still makes Billy’s head snap back, glaring at him.

“Excuse me?”

Steve raises one shoulder. “Nothing.” Slurps at the milkshake. 

“Listen, you little fuck-“ 

Steve laughs at him, outright interrupting him. “Nah, man. I’m not fighting with you. Not over this.” 

Billy twists his hands into fists. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Seriously. I’m not doing it.” He balls a used napkin up, tosses it on their pile of trash. “You want a ride?”

Neither of them ate the _Fillet-O-Fish_. Steve chucks it on the top of his dashboard. Says, “Someone’ll eat it.” Like. He has enough random visitors in his car, that eventually some loser will be hungry enough to force an abandoned _Fillet-O-Fish_ down their throat. 

His phone vibrates. Frank’s texting him. Billy ignores it. 

The drive to Billy’s is short, but they get stuck in traffic just after the turning. Steve drums his hand on the steering wheel. Billy can feel the cranks in Harrington’s head clicking over. “What?”

Steve swishes his thumb over his phone screen. Puts something poppy on that Billy doesn’t recognise. “Just. What you been up to?”

Billy stares at him. Incredulous. “Fucking working.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Dipshit.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes big, exaggerated faux-interest. “What you been up to, bro?”

Steve tucks his phone into the designated space on the edge of the console. Knocks his head back on the seat. Watches Billy like he can’t understand what’s got him so worked up. He turns to look at the car in front of them. “College.” He leans over Billy’s knees, digs a packet of gum outta the glove compartment. Puts a piece in his mouth before offering the pack.

Billy clicks his tongue against his teeth before accepting. In a voice that lilts side-to-side, like he’s talking to a baby, “Where do you go to college then, big guy?”

“New Hampshire.” 

Billy groans. Chews loudly on his gum. Sharp mint sniping at his sinuses. He feels edgy in Steve’s fucking fancy _BMW_. Steve’s music is pissing him off. He reaches for Steve’s phone and punches in Harrington’s birthday. Steve doesn’t say anything. Lets Billy scroll through his _itunes_. Entirely unsurprised by the whole thing when Billy leaves _Charles Bradley_ playing. 

“What the fuck do you do in New Hampshire, then?” 

“Dance.”

Billy barely manages not to gawp. Snorts loudly. “No you fucking don’t.” He laughs. Tips Harrington’s phone into his lap. Steve grins. “Sure I do. You can’t see me majoring in dance?” He moves his phone back to the holder.

It turns out Steve’s actual degree is some incomprehensible bullshit about city planning and sewer systems and affordable housing. Billy’s not sure he gets it. Or why it’s what Harrington wants to be doing, but his leg isn’t hurting. He’s not in pain. He’s full and there’s good music playing so he’s happy. For now. To listen to Steve whittle on, using his hands to estimate length of. Pipes. Or steal beams. Or something. 

In the parking space outside Billy’s building, Steve puffs air out his mouth, breezing the flippy ends of his hair away from his eyes. “You don’t have to come to this barbeque, but if you wanted, I could come get you.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“I’m not. It’ll be nice. Guys from the basketball team will be there. Tommy. And Carol.”

“That sounds like blast, Harrington.” 

“Oh. You got something better to do? Drool over that douche you work with? How old is he, dude?” Steve narrows his eyes. “Sulk about your dad or your knee?”

“Fuck off.” Billy tears open the car door. Leans on it to catch himself. Leans down to Harrington. “You don’t know anything about me. You twat.” He slams the door. Cringes at himself for his dumb choice of insult as he limps up the stairs. 

He’s shaking as he gets inside. Fucking Harrington. He slings his keys onto the kitchen table. Digs his phone out of his pocket. 

Frank’s texts are sloppy. The last one is a bunch of peace-sign emojis and him asking Billy if he can come over. Fucking Harrington thinking he knows anything at all about his life. The shit he has to go through on a daily fucking basis. Not being able to move. Having to dodge Neil. Putting up with Frank. Dealing with Max. He looks up at the ceiling. Doesn’t look at his thumbs typing out a response. 

\--

She’s not in a good mood today. Billy's mom has lived at St Agatha's since his seventh birthday. She tried so hard. She always tried so hard. But that day had been too much for her. Billy doesn't remember, but Neil sure does. Always nagging at Billy. Whose fault is this, Billy? He broke her. He ruined everything. Even now that Neil's got some new chick, he's still not done. Still trying to sabotage Billy’s attempts at avoiding him. 

She holds his hand too tightly. Her eyes frosty. Mouth thin. She’s got it into her head that Billy promised to bring his boyfriend to meet her. She’s mad that she’s gone to all the effort and shame of asking a nurse to lend her a peachy lipstick. She feels betrayed. She thinks Billy doesn’t trust her to be open-minded. She keeps telling him about how she voted for Obama. Which is just. Sad. And also. Not true. She was here. She’s always here. 

They do these little. Funny, little seminars at the home. People from the community come and talk to them. Firefighters. Vets. Ex-professors. Charity-type people. Billy doesn’t fucking know. But Louis told him that they’d had someone from the LGBT organisation come speak. _Because it’s June!_ Billy doesn’t fucking know what that means either. What he does know is that he could have a wife stood next to him with four of his spawned kids and mom would still have thought he was bringing some twink to see her ‘cause of the fucking do-gooder. Fucking with her head. 

Billy always thinks of her with long hair. But the home keep her curls cropped close to her jaw. It’s easier for washing. It’s grey at her temples. Billy can never decide that if he could pretend to be her, if she would want to dye it. She’s too young to be going grey. She was never vain, but mostly because. Well. Neil wouldn’t let her be. And then there’s God. Billy’s not sure if the Pope has any particular thoughts about hair-dying, but there’s definitely rules about humility. 

Her hand is hurting his, her grip pinching his skin between the metal of his ring. “All I’m saying, Billy. Is that it would be fine.”

“I know, mom.”

She purses her lips at him. She pats at the small gold cross around her neck. Her eyes on Billy’s pendant. She blinks rapidly. Like she might be about to cry. And Billy can’t handle that. Not today. “So you’ll bring him? Next time. You’ll bring Steve Harrington?”

\--

Billy drives himself to Steve Harrington’s barbeque. He’s having a good knee day and even if he wasn’t, he didn’t want to catch a ride. With anyone. He sits in Harrington’s driveway for a long time. Taking tiny tokes, and spritzing some shit drugstore bodyspray Max had left in his car after each puff. Listening to _Cardi B_ through his earbuds. Psyching himself up. 

The Harrington house is as _Architectural Digest_ as Billy remembers it. The front door had been open, so he let himself in when nobody answered the bell. There’s a large vase of white flowers on a circular oak table in the hall. The pale green walls are lined with neatly framed photos of the Harrington children. Steve’s oldest brother stood next to a plaque in an important looking building. The other brother on his wedding day. His sister. Whose name still rang in the halls of Hawkins High when Steve and Billy finally got there. She’s wearing her doctor’s scrubs. Making a point. Giving a speech. 

Steve is there. Forth in a collection of Hawkins High graduation pictures. He’s a lot younger than the other three. Maybe Mr and Mrs Harrington are waiting. Billy thinks about all the stuff Steve achieved at school. All the stuff he could and did do that Billy couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Maybe Steve doesn’t photograph well. 

“Oh! Billy.”

“Nancy.”

“We didn’t hear you. We’re in the back.” Her narrow face is pulled tight. Like she’s trying to recall their last interaction, if she’s angry at him. Like, maybe she would be angry at him, but has decided she pities him. His knee. A trump card for bitches like Nancy. 

She thrusts a large bowl of coleslaw into his hands. “C’mon.” Maybe not. 

Somebody has made the bad decision to put cubes of pickled beets in the salad. Steve is stood by the wide sliding doors Nancy leads him through. On sight, he pushes the bowl at Harrington who is forced to give Billy his beer in exchange. The bowl too big. Billy smirks. Watches as Steve graciously puts it on the table, gets him a fresh can and swaps him.

Billy takes a sip. Looks around the garden. Steve is the only Harrington present. Which Billy thinks is creepy ‘cause this is their house and there are a bunch of adults milling about. Chief Hopper by the extravagant grill. A slim twitchy woman stood next to him. And Karen Wheeler heading straight for them.

“Billy!” She grasps his elbow. He’s gonna get real sick of hearing his name said like that pretty quick. “How’s your mother?”

Fuck. He figures smoking up was a dead smart idea. He’s not nearly as irritated by the question as he usually is. “Fine.”

Karen squeezes once. Wrinkles her nose cheerily. “And your knee? How’s it treating you?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. “Fine.”

She seems to catch his drift. She nods her head. Smiles primly. “Good!” She turns to Steve. “I’m going to see how the fish is getting on.” Her long, white skirt swishes over the flagstones as she passes by, back into the house.

Billy mouths at Steve silently, _the fish?_. Steve huffs a short laugh. “She wanted to make salmon.” He puts a hand into the pocket of his jeans. Takes a sip of his drink. He looks like a parent indulging an over-eager child. He peers at Billy. “Are you high?”

“A bit.”

He laughs that soft huffing sound again. “And you didn’t think to share.”

Billy hums. Pretend pondering. “I’m not big on sharing.”

“No shit.”

Billy flicks the tab of his can. “You’re not either.”

Steve ducks his head. Humbled. Raises his can and Billy meets it. 

\--

They’re all sort of lurking at the front of the Harrington house. Billy is sat on the edge of an ornamental fountain. There’s no water it in. He’s pleasantly warm despite the chill in the air from the just setting sun. He thinks his face might be smiling. He’s _Housewife drunk_. 

He’d hissed this confession, conspiratorially into Steve’s ear about four hours ago, while they all ate. Burgers with mustard and mayonnaise. Lemon salmon. Garlic eggplant. It was an odd mix that seemed to be the result of everybody wanting a go on the grill or in the Harrington’s huge chrome kitchen and Steve letting them. Steve had giggled, “What?” 

Billy had waved his large glass of white wine at him. Pointed at it. finger tapping, causing waves. “Housewife drunk.” Then raised his eyebrows in the direction of Karen Wheeler who was telling an uninterested looking Carol about how best to cut lemons. _For gin or for fish!_

People are slowly leaving. Steve has allowed Karen to take over the role of host. She’s passing saran-wrapped dishes of food into people’s hands, telling them to drive safe. She’s good at this. She’s not even normal-drunk. She’s boring as fuck, but Billy can kinda appreciate her vibe. Nancy, in a _Sarah Lawrence_ tee is helping her mom and Billy knows that’s nice.

Steve comes to perch next to him. “How you holding up, buddy?”

“I’m good, Steve Harrington.” 

Steve goes to say something, but he stops as he notices a familiar looking black car pull up. Billy notices it too. Neil steps out. He’s a fucking psycho and Billy feels him immediately zone in on his waste of space son. Billy’s buzz evaporates like. Billy can’t think. Just, he feels awful pretty fucking fast. Neil’s intercepted by Karen. She doesn’t give him any leftovers, but she tells him what wonderful children he has. 

Which is a fucking joke. Billy leans on one hand, attempting to stand. He wants to fucking tell his dad, that he’s no child. That he’s fucking out here. Working and shit. Fucking getting fucked by taxes and medical bills and the price of gas. He’s a goddamn fucking housewife. Steve beats him to it. He stands in front of Billy and pulls him to his feet, but blocks his path. 

“I wanna-“

“No you don’t. Come inside. I’ve got sorbet.”

Billy sneers at him. “Fuck off.” Hitting a hundred degrees at an alarm rate and blazing through his brain is the reason he hates Steve Harrington. That he’s only here ‘cause mom freaked him the fuck out. With her creepy, prophetic speech patterns. Her deluded fucking rollingmarble mind. How she sometimes doesn’t know who the fuck Billy is, but was able to tell him all about Steve Harrington’s high school successes. Shit he did with Eco Club, the bullshit photography exhibition he organised. Being fucking captain of the basketball team. 

He pushes past Steve, stumbles towards Neil and Karen. His bad leg trailing behind him. “Dad!” Mouth cracked open over a too-wide smile. Baring his teeth. “Dad. It’s me.” His voice warbles over bitter jest. He pokes his fingertips into his own chest. “Billy.”

Neil pastes on the same smile. It’s how Billy learnt it. He grips Billy’s bicep. Too hard. “Billy, son.”

That’s fucking assault. Billy’s an actual fucking adult. Dad can’t keep thinking he can touch Billy whenever he likes. Fucking with his personal space. Like he’s got a right to Billy’s body. Billy’s broken down, fucking defective body. Billy lunges at him, gets the crook of his elbow around his neck. “I need a ride.” 

Neil pushes the edge of his wrists into Billy’s tummy. “Son. I’m going to take Max home.”

Billy licks his teeth. Looks into Neil’s blue eyes. They match. Glacier. Presses a dry kiss to Neil’s cheek. “My leg hurts. Dad.”

“I’ll take him. Mister Hargrove. I’ll take him.” Steve pulls at the back of Billy’s linen shirt, the ever-undone buttons means it opens out, butterfly. Exposing Billy’s shoulder. The glitter of his necklace in the bright lights of the Harrington driveway. 

Neil sneers as Steve tugs Billy to him. Lets him lean on his extended arm. Billy feels sick. He knows what dad’s thinking. 

Karen claps her hands as she spots Max. She opens the back passenger side door for her. “We’ll see you, Max.” She puts a container of blueberry cheesecake slices on Max’s lap. She stands by the open door. Watching Neil with a patient face. Playing witness. 

Neil jerks his head, like he might spit on the ground. Looks up at Billy, venom slit eyes. Gets in the car without saying anything. Ignores Karen as she closes the door and steps away from the car, waving like they’re long lost family. 

When they’re out of sight, Karen turns to him. “Try to be good. For Max.” 

She looks around. Hands on her hips. Seemingly unaware that Billy is walking away from her to sit back down on the cold stone of the fountain to avoid slapping her to the ground. It’s just them left. Her own kids occupied by their own lives. Other people’s families. 

She brushes her hands down the front of her skirt. The edge has turned green from the grass. “Thank you for a wonderful day, Steven.” She kisses him on both cheeks. Gets in the car. She calls out as she’s reversing, “Bye, Billy.” 

Steve looms over him. Billy glares at his flip-flops. “You want that sorbet?”

He looks up, tilts his chin. “No, I fucking don’t.” He throws his hands up. ”I’m trying to go the fuck home. I’m just.” He whispers to himself _Housewife drunk_.

Steve disappears and when he comes back it is the smell of lime that makes Billy look over at him. Harrington sucks on his spoon. “Mojito flavour.” He double-dips. Holds the spoon out to Billy. He opens his mouth and takes it. He clacks his molars together a couple of times. It’s weirdly salty. Steve laughs at his prickletongue.

“Don’t like it?”

Billy shakes his head. 

They sit for a moment. Steve says, “If we went in the pool, would you drown?”

\--

Steve’s pool undulates, tranquil. Turquoise ripples that make Billy feel like he’s tripping. It’s a perfect temperature. Steve borrowed him some swim shorts and they’re a little slim, tight around his thighs. He feels warm from the inside out. Content. Watching Steve sit on the edge of the pool, dangling his ankles in the water, still half nibbling at the sorbet.

Billy’s not sure what he’s meant to be picking up, but Steve’s put on some slow, _Netflix_ and chill sounding playlist. Working its way through _Sonder_ , _Moglii_. _The Weeknd_. He wades over to Harrington. Props himself up on folded arms. Slowly cycling his legs. Magic on his knee. Mumbles into his damp wrist, “This is good.”

“Yeah?” Steve unclasps his watch and sets it down. Slides into the water, tee clinging wetly to his body. Mini crocodile logo going translucent. Hunching to get his shoulders under.

Billy hums low in his chest. Feels like a pampered cat. Turns so that his back is up against the cool tile. Smiles at Steve, eyelashes flickering drowsily. “You’re lucky.”

“Sometimes.” Steve puts his face in the water, flicks his head back sprinkling water droplets over Billy’s face. His eyes are focused on Billy’s collarbones, the curve of his chest where his medallion lays. He reaches forward, neatly turns it over so that he can see Mary. 

“Is your priest still that guy who got arrested for hotboxing out on Cornwallis?”

Billy nods. “Yeah. “ He rubs a palm over his pec’. Over Mary. “Yeah. I’ve not been much.”

Steve grins. “’Cause your priest is corrupt?”

“Dick.” Billy splashes at him.

They float aimlessly. Companionably. Steve spits water outta his mouth. “Hey. If you need a ride. To church.” He makes the face that all non-religious people make when they’re confronted with the reality, that sometimes. People who believe in God. Meet up. “Or wherever. I’ll take you.”

Billy cups his hands under the water, scoops a tide over his shoulder. “No exciting summer plans, Harrington?”

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” He winks, startling a gentle chuckle out of Billy. 

Billy swims in a lazy loop, hiding his face from Steve. Sidles up behind him, drapes his arms either side of Harrington’s neck, links his hands together. He leans back, just a touch. Carefully drifting, their feet still close to the ground. His mouth close the skin behind Steve’s ear. “I’m sleepy.”

They glide into a pause as Steve strokes his hands over Billy’s forearms. Turns in his hold. Spans his hands around Billy’s ribs. “You drank a bottle of wine.”

He can feel the edge of Steve’s thumb ring, hazy over bone. “Yeah. I did.” His eyes linger over Steve’s parted lips. Fuck.

Steve presses their foreheads together. “I’m gonna find you pyjamas.” He rocks his head slightly. “The brushed cotton ones.” He strokes Billy’s back. 

It’s a fucking weird thing to say. Steve’s voice is dreamy like he’s thinking out loud. 

Billy leans back so that his jaw drags along Steve’s. Puts space between them. He wants to tell Harrington to go fuck himself. Fucking pyjamas. Prick. He knows he’s definitely still a bit drunk that he hasn’t already made a break for his car. He doesn’t know how to think about Harrington. How to categorise him. He still fucking hates him. Hates that he’s always been there. Present at Billy’s lowest moments. 

Right now. Right now though, he’s never felt so calm. Not even at his best, with hot sand between his toes, saltwater drenching. Not ever. Feels even-headed, his limbs all comfortable in their joints, balmy right to his fingertips. 

“You forgive me? For. Ya know?”

Steve takes the question in his stride. “The fight?” He touches the tip of his nose to Billy’s before pulling back. “Yeah.” He tilts his head to the side, looks up to an invisible corner. Gently sways them. “It was a bad week.” 

Billy bites his lip. Yeah. It fucking had been. 

“Do you forgive me?”

He thinks about how fucked that night had been. How Steve probably would never understand why calling the cops was stupid. That he was wrong, that he should have listened to Frank. He thinks about Neil, now partly responsible for raising Max. Soon to be her new dad. 

Thinks about the fact that Steve. Steve who now surfs and wears gold jewellery. Harrington who likes gin’n’tonic, knows pointless shit about architecture and keeps commenting links to various charities on _Kim Kardashian_ ’s _Instagram_ posts. Barbeque hosting, adult-acting Steve Harrington is definitely fucking off back east in about six weeks.


	2. ii

“Who’s dog is this?” Marcella bends at the waist to look the ruffled thing in the face. As though he might tell her. “Seriously. This is a joke.” She unties the mutt’s lead from the bike rack. “You can’t just leave your dog out here,” she shouts into the parking lot. “It’s like the surface of the sun.” She tugs a little and the dog follows her into the pizza parlour. 

“Woah. Nope.” Frank waves at her from behind the tables in the front window. “You can’t bring that in here.”

Billy sat next to Frank, leans down and wiggles his fingers at the dog. Marcella lets go of the lead to gesture dramatically outside, says, “It’s a hundred degrees outside. It’s gonna die.”

He scritches at the scraggly grey fur of his neck and the dog lets himself be scooped up into Billy’s arms. “Hey little fella.”

“You don’t gotta bring him in here, though. Take water out to him.”

“It’s the heat, dickhead. The sidewalk is hot.”

The dog licks Billy’s face. Frank growls. “That’s disgusting.”

“Shuddup.” Billy nose kisses the dog. 

Frank wrinkles his nose. Marcella folds her arms, looking smug. Billy tucks his fingers into the dog’s collar. “He doesn’t have a name tag.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Franks throws his dishrag on the table.

Marcella laughs, “You gonna name him?”

“Naw.” 

The dog pants happily. 

“We can’t do that.” Billy looks between Frank and Marcella, eyebrows tilted, hesitant like. “Can we?”

Marcella shrugs. “You allowed pets in your building?”

“Oh. I don’t. Actually know.” 

The dog wiggles happily. 

“We should make a lost poster or something though, right?”

“Yes,” Frank hisses. He slides across the dining room floor and grabs his laptop from the counter. It’s quietly playing _Macklemore_. He’s been deemed a safe choice to clean the restaurant to. So long as they skip past _Same Love_. Fucking. Jesus. Billy’s not getting into it with Frank over why he doesn’t wanna hear that shit. 

He starts opening up _Photoshop_. Marcella flicks the _Apple_ logo. “No don’t be a dick about it.” Frank puts his arm up, protective. “You’ll spend forever, fucking about with like. Colours. Just put ‘lost’ in _WordArt_.”

The dog barks, just once. Happily.

Marcella points at Billy. “Don’t you dare give him some name that we need a fucking BA in communications to understand.” 

Frank pipes up, “Or spend sixteen hours a day on fucking _Tumblr_.” 

“I don’t do that.”

“No?”

“No. Anyway. We should just call him Buddy. Right?”

Frank looks at him like maybe Billy’s been through some Pet 101 that he missed in middle school. “Sure. Whatever.”

Buddy pads his front paws at Billy’s thighs. 

\--

At lunchtime, Billy’s sat outside on one of the little picnic tables they put out in the summer. In the shade of the Italian flag umbrella, he’s feeding bits of chicken to Buddy and trying to keep his cigarette smoke away from him. 

It’s worker’s lunch so it’s really only eleven am. And Billy’s only got half an hour. And his lunch was a soymilk protein shake that Frank made. It was shit, but he’s sick of pizza. He’s got the claggy taste of dried vanilla at the back of his tongue. 

Steve Harrington helps himself to the seat next to Billy and pats Buddy on the head. “New friend?”

Billy crushes his cigarette butt in the upturned lid of Frank’s plastic shaker. Shakes his head. “Dunno. Marcella found him tied up out here.”

Steve cups his hands around Buddy’s neck and grinning says, “Hey, buddy.”

Billy smirks. Victorious. 

“He’s been abandoned, huh?”

“Maybe. Frank’s making a poster.”

Steve nods. “Team effort.”

Steve’s got a thing about Marcella and Frank. Mostly, it’s that he hates Frank. But. It’s a two-way street. Billy rubs his pinky ring over his lips. He changes the subject. “Thanks.” He lights another cigarette. Offers the pack to Steve. “For the weekend.”

“No problem.” He squeezes the packet of _Marlboro’s_ , but doesn’t take one.

Buddy paws at Steve’s shins until he picks him up and lets him sit in his lap. “You should put something on _Facebook_.”

Billy hums. The only people he’s friends with on _Facebook_ are within twenty feet of him. And Louis. Harrington’s probably got like, moms. Karen Wheeler-types all over his dash. “Maybe. You could do it?” 

“Sure.” He wrangles his phone outta his pocket. Careful not to jostle Buddy. “Say cheese, lil bud.”

He types away furiously for a moment or two, making Billy wonder what the fuck he’s posting. He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “There. Done.”

Billy raises an eyebrow. Breathes smoke. Steve watches him. He’s wearing his baseball cap backwards, blonde curls crinkled at the space between the snap. He wants to ask him how he’s feeling. “Joyce says Melvald doesn’t want to sell _Tide Pods_ any more. The internet’s got him worried.”

“That’s dumb,” Billy snorts. 

“Wha’? You don’t want in on Joyce’s cheap _Tide Pod_ action?”

“I don’t use _Tide Pods_.”

“What are you using instead of _Tide Pods_?”

“Stop saying _Tide Pods_.”

Steve puts his hands up, laughing. Looking like he did at one in the morning in the Harrington’s stupidly bright kitchen. Drunker than they had been in the pool after raiding the drinks cabinet. Steve dumping the last of the Mojito sorbet into the blender and sluicing rum over it to make alcoholic slushies. Billy grimacing, swallowing hard. Sucking at the lemon slice in Steve’s hand. 

“Okay.” Steve strokes a hand down Buddy’s back. “Thanks. For coming.” He shrugs, half turning. “To the barbeque.” He flexes his fingers over Buddy’s small ears. “Karen Wheeler sure does like you.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Billy drags deeply on his cigarette, exhaling a small laugh.

Steve tucks his head close to Buddy’s, whines all _Good Ship Lollipop_ , “He’s such a good boy, Mr Hargrove.”

Billy knows he’s fucking around. But seriously. “C’mon man.” He rubs his palm over his knee. Plays showboat. “She’s just lonely.” He licks his top lip.

“Fuck off.” Steve leans back on the bench, grinning. He coughs. “She, erm. She got into a big fight with my mom once.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She called at the house with a pie. Like, oh-I wanna meet the mother of my daughter’s boyfriend.”

Billy flicks cigarette ash on the ground behind him. 

“My mom was all, oh-I didn’t know Steve had a girlfriend.”

Billy sniggers. Thumps his chest with his fist. Buddy barks. 

“Hey man.” Steve’s laughing. “It wasn’t funny at the time.” He puts Buddy on the ground, who waffles around in a tight circle before flopping down. “You don’t ever wanna hear Karen Wheeler screaming about condoms on. Like, a schoolnight.”

“You know that’s why she wanted to cook salmon in your kitchen though, right?”

Steve scrunches up his face. 

“She probably got like, depressed housewife drunk-“ he taps the point of his index finger onto the table, “-it’s different. And was stalking your mom on _Facebook_. Like. What shit does Mrs Harrington hate.”

“I dunno if my mom hates salmon.” Steve gets his phone out like he might be about to just text her to find out. He flashes it at Billy. “People like your dog.”

“Jesus.” Billy rolls his eyes. 

Frank comes out, the parlour door banging behind him, bell tinkling. He sets down a thin stack of paper. “Hey kids.” He turns the top sheet over. “It’s good right?” Frank’s poster is shit. In _Frankie Goes to Hollywood_ typeface, he’s written ‘lost dog’, all caps. He reads out the fineprint, “Are you a heartless fuck? Did you leave your dog outside Maggiorani’s? Come get it.” He looks at them like he might be expecting genuine con-crit.

“It doesn’t have a picture,” Steve says.

Frank frowns. “Who the fuck are you?”

Billy drops his cigarette butt next to the other. Gross yellow-white shake residue turning ashy. Closes his eyes briefly. 

“Fuck, man. Who d’you think I am?”

The muscles in Frank’s jaw jump. “Well, shit.” Elbows up on the table, he clasps his left hand over his right fist. “I think. You’re the dumbass who got all types of fucked in my parking lot.”

Steve’s voice is drawling, “Your parking lot?”

“Yeah. My parking lot, you cunt.” Frank swings his arm back to point at the parlour. “That’s my restaurant.” He points over at the ancient mini-mart across the way. “That’s my liquor store.” He points at the crumbling building with potted flowers and magazine racks outside. “That’s my newsstand.” He points his finger at Steve, an inch away from jabbing him in the chest. “Fucking got it?”

Billy clicks his tongue against his teeth. What Frank means is the Maggiorani family and friends take up space inside three out of the four shitty little buildings around the parking lot. Two of Frank’s cousins and a god-brother and a niece all work the same stupid hours for crappy pay that he and Marcella and Billy do. 

“Problem, Hargrove?”

“No.” The corners of Billy’s mouth turn down in an uninterested pout. Shakes his head. “That Chinese buffet sure is a bug in your butt though, right?”

Steve pops his lips, then purses them together. Eyes wide. Buddy snuffles. 

Frank thrusts the stack of paper at Billy. “Here.” He puts his hands up and steps off the bench. “I’m done. I’m so done.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Frank,” Billy calls after him.

Billy and Steve watch the door bang. 

Steve runs his thumb over the corner of the stack of posters, flickerbook. “You want help putting these up?”

\--

Billy tosses the posters into the garbage can at the top of the street. They’re a joke. They don’t mean anything. He figures he’ll see what happens on Harrington’s social media. Steve stays with him though, as they slowly make their way around block. Buddy trotting cheerfully alongside their heels.

“You think you might keep him?”

They’re nearing the parlour again and Billy is grateful ‘cause his knee has been sending twinges up his thigh for the past four minutes. He puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Brings them to a stop. He leans on his right leg. Mouth drawn up in pain. “I can’t fucking walk, Harrington.”

Buddy sits in front of them and wags his tail. He scratches his side with his back paw. Lays down on his tummy. 

“He doesn’t look too worried.”

Billy digs his fingertips into Steve, catching on his collarbone. Steve hisses. “C’mon.” Puts an arm around his waist. “Don’t be a bitch.”

Billy cuffs him on the back of the head. Pulls away so that he’s not relying on Steve and starts moving. 

\--

Marcella got sick of Billy and Frank sniping at each other for the better part of the afternoon, so she sent Billy home. Told him to take his fucking pills. Suffering on the drive home, leg cramping dangerously with his foot on the pedal, _Siri, tell Marcella I fucking have_.

He gets radio silence for his trouble. Billy picks up cans of dog food and some kibble and a three pack of tennis balls at the _Kroger_ on his way past. At home, he gets Buddy cosy like and tries to think who to talk to about the pet rule. He doesn’t really want to ask his landlady, in case she figures he has a dog already and comes to fucking confiscate him or something. But he doesn’t really talk to his neighbours. 

Stretching his leg out on the coffee table, he moves Buddy on the cushion next to him so that he can tug his laptop closer. His rent contract was a barebones kinda deal that Miss Dayton sent via email. He’s only met her once. Scrolling through, there’s no explicit reference to animals. Just a vague nod, in the responsibilities paragraph that also discusses trash collection, to keep the apartment clean under any circumstances. 

He sighs. He’d really like to smoke a bowl right now. He’s fairly certain you’re not meant to do that with a dog around. He pulls his cap off. Buddy runs his wet nose over the back of Billy’s hand. He wipes it on his jeans. Balances his hat on Buddy’s head and snaps a photo. 

Before he can dwell too much, he sends it. 

Harrington is kinda lame and Billy gets a reply immediately. _Too Cute!!_ , followed by a stream of aggressively kitschy emojis. A minute later and Steve’s name lights up his home screen.

Billy answers, “I don’t do phone calls.”

“Guess I’m talking to myself then.”

“Guess so.”

“Whatever, I’m not sending you. Like, a fucking owl.”

“Might get to the point faster than you.”

“Shut the fuck up. Look. Are you at home?”

Billy gnaws at the edge of his middle fingernail. Hums in the affirmative. 

“Can I come over?”

Billy’s quiet for a long moment. He doesn’t really want Harrington in his space. In the only space in Hawkins where Steve Harrington’s presence hasn’t taken up permanent residence. With his, fucking reputation or charm or whatever. A normal fucking person would have taken Billy’s silence as an answer, _no worries, man. Another time_. Not fucking Harrington. He waits it out. 

Billy groans. “Alright. House guests gotta bring something nice, though.”

Steve laughs like he might already have a bow wrapped bottle of wine waiting by the door. “Sure thing.“

\--

People like Steve because they think he’s reliable. They think he’s the goofy youngest Harrington, who might turn out good. They ask him favours and give him opportunities. ‘Cause they think there won’t be any repercussions. Steve’s not going to ask for anything back. Even if he fucks up, it’ll be alright ‘cause they trust his potential. Potential. Pinned to Steve’s chest like a gold _Hand of the King_.

Billy is not people. So when Steve turns up on his doorstep with Chinese take-out, Billy knows he’s still the petty little brat who deserved slap or two. He rummages through the plastic carrier bag as Steve finishes putting the boxes on the coffee table. Digs the receipt out. Checks for the name of the buffet. Pushes it into Steve’s cheek. “You’re such a dick.”

Steve chucks a set of chopsticks at him. “Yeah. But I brought _Blue Moon_ too.”

“Christ. You’re so mid-west.”

“You got it, buddy.” He uncaps a bottle using the opener on his keychain. Passes it to Billy. He looks around. “Where’s Buddy?”

“In the kitchen.” Billy sips at his beer. “He’s got a ball.”

Steve grins. 

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying anything.” Steve bites into an egg roll. 

\--

Billy feels overfed and fucking. Satisfied. He’s wary that this is becoming a common occurrence with Harrington. He’s not meant to wash his pills down with alcohol, but it sure does help his knee. He stretches his arms over his head, tucks his hands under his neck. 

Steve pinches the edge of Billy’s tee between his thumb and index finger and tugs it back down over his tummy. His ring cool on Billy’s skin. He’s got that same. Over-familiar. Thing that Frank does. It pisses Billy off, but he can’t really be bothered to work up the energy to be mad about it. Steve says, “I had a really fucked up dream last night.”

Jesus. Harrington is one of those bitches. Billy closes his eyes. Fully warning Harrington that he’s going to be taking a nap now. 

“It was like, _Disneyland_. But fucked. Like that _Banksy_ thing.” He pokes Billy in the side to get a listening grunt. “I wasn’t allowed to leave ‘cause I couldn’t find the right souvenir.“

Billy frowns, eyes still closed. “Like. A fridge magnet?”

“Sure. I dunno.” Steve settles back, mirroring Billy. Bridges his fingers over his chest. Closes his eyes. “I’ve never been to Disneyland.”

“Eh,” Billy murmurs. “It’s nothing special.”

\--

When Billy was fourteen, he got suspended from school real close to the summer. Neil was mad as all get out and didn’t really know what to do with him. Besides what he usually did. He kept ranting about the likelihood of Billy ending up smoking crack on the bad side of the quarry. Like that was a thing that made any fucking sense. Billy can’t even remember what got him kicked outta school like that. His dad thought he’d done it deliberate, lazy fucking punk. But Billy figures if he had done it on purpose he at least would remember it now. 

Neil had sent him back to California. Which had been fucking terrifying. ‘Cause it felt like a punishment that was a reward wrapped in layers of future punishment. He stayed with his mom’s nephew and his wife and kids. Good guy. Security guard at _PayPal_. 

Billy had never been to Disneyland and had been wired at the thought that he was gonna get to go. It’s a long fucking trip from San Jose to the Magical Kingdom, but Teddy always made Billy feel comfortable. Not like he was a burden. Or something to be resented. Just a fact of life. Life that is mean. And full of annoying shit, like your crazy aunt’s bad kid. 

Still. The guilt ate Billy up so bad he could barely move around the park. 

There’s a weirdass photo of him buried on Teddy’s _Facebook_. He’s stood next to _Donald Duck_ , a hand on his knee, half bent-over, looking like he’s going to hurl on his little cousin’s _Cinderella_ shoes. He wishes Teddy would take it down. 

At St Agatha’s, Billy asks his mom is she ever went to Disneyland. She pats his bad knee. Forgetting. “No sweet pea. I grew up on a farm.”

“Yeah, but you moved to L.A.”

“I’ve never lived in L.A, Billy.” 

Billy wants to tell her that she did. She fucking did. Because he feels that’s an important part of her character. She didn’t want to move to the closest city, she wanted to move big. She wanted to move to L.A because it’s Los fucking Angeles. 

But she met Neil in L.A. 

So Billy stays quiet.

Louis brings them cups of too milky tea and Billy asks if he can take mom outside to see Buddy. 

Mom is not keen on meeting Buddy. She lingers by the back porch. Hand clutching at the plastic white fence. “Mom, he’s good. Come say hi.”

“Billy. I don’t like.” She gestures out into the little green yard. “The sun.”

“You love the sun.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows at Billy’s tone. Billy’s been escorted off St Agatha’s property before. For getting frustrated. They always assure him that it’s normal behaviour. For both him and her. And that he’s welcome back. But he often thinks they’d rather he didn’t. They could just collect their money and not have to deal with Billy’s fucking. Emotions. 

He unties Buddy’s leash from the tree and bundles him into his arms. He carries him over to mom. Buddy looks at her with his big, brown eyes and pants. “See. He’s friendly.” 

She cautiously reaches out to gently run her fingertips through Buddy’s curly fur at the front of his face. She tries to smile. Billy puts him back on the ground where he taps his paws over the terracotta paving. He sits down close to mom’s feet in their _Ugg_ slippers that Billy spent a fortune on at Christmas.

Mom takes a step back and takes Billy’s hand. 

Louis ushers them back inside, to the little dayroom that Billy hates. He’s offered a glass of lemonade, but Billy finds he’s run out of safe conversation topics. He glances at his phone. He’ll have to leave to catch the bus soon. He lets mom stroke her hand through his hair. Tells him he looks just like grandpop, even though it kinda kills him inside. She asks him, “How is Steve Harrington?” At which point, Billy decides it’s time to go. 

He caught the bus because his knee was giving him trouble, but the walk from St Agatha’s to the stop is such a pain that he wonders if he may as well have just risked driving. Buddy’s playfully waddling next to him though and that keeps him focused. 

Billy sits down heavily on a metal bench, moaning loudly. Pulling his cap off and stretching his legs out. A woman in a pale pink smock next to him glares like she wants to tell him off. For daring to exist. For being in fucking agony.

He runs a hand over his sweaty forehead. Points at her cane with a rose pattern over it. “I like your stick.”

She clicks her teeth, thinking he’s being a bitch. He is. But he’s also really jealous. Buddy buts his head at Billy’s calf, which is damn lucky ‘cause their bus is pulling up. He knows he should keep Buddy on the floor, tucked under his chair, but the bus jolt pauses every ten fucking minutes and it’s going to take forever to get home. And. He really needs a bit of a cuddle. 

His knee hurts too much to rest any weight on it, so he shuffles Buddy up onto one thigh and his chest. Lets him settle his chin over his shoulder. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he figures Buddy’s owner is the real loser here, ‘cause he doesn’t make a fuss when Billy manhandles him out the way to avoid hurting his knee as he pulls it out. 

He doesn’t not appreciate dickpics from Frank. He just hopes that whoever’s behind him isn’t looking over. He scratches Buddy’s neck, tries to angle his screen so that Buddy doesn’t get the wrong impression. He’s sort of debating what to text back. He doesn’t really want to see Frank. He wants to take Buddy to _PetCo_ and risk buying him a nametag. They can’t cost that much, right. He felt weird leaving Buddy outside St Agatha’s, too much like whoever left him outside the parlour.

If he had a nametag. It’d be different. Billy knows his knee would never let him get to _PetCo_ , not this evening. He’s willing to put out if Frank will give him a ride. He rolls his eyes. Frank’ll just be a jerk about it. He strokes Buddy’s chin. 

\--

Billy hobbles into the passenger seat of Harrington’s car. Gets Buddy to sit at his feet. “Appreciate it, man.”

“No problem.” Steve eases his way through the collection point and pushes the speed limit to avoid getting stuck behind a bus just about to pull out in front of them. He’s got _Arcade Fire_ playing obnoxiously low, like Billy won’t figure it and attempt to turn it off. 

He turns it up. ‘Cause he’s nothing if not. Diverse. Steve smirks at him. “How was your day?”

Billy thinks about lying. “Yeah. Listen. Can we go by _PetCo_?”

“Yeah.” Steve rolls his lips together. Nods. “Hey. I’ve had hundreds of likes on that photo. Erm. Nobody knows whose he is though.”

Billy pats Buddy’s head. “Do you think I should call the police? Is that what people do? Report animals missing?”

“I guess. I dunno. But I asked Hop about him and he said not to worry about it.”

“Not to worry about it?” 

“Yep.”

Billy frowns. “What if. Like, I didn’t want him?”

“You do though, right?”

He shrugs.

“We’re going to _PetCo_.” Steve looks at Billy like he’s asking a question. 

Billy doesn’t say anything, but when they get to the store he ends up forking over an obscene amount of cash for a bunch of injections Buddy apparently needs. He’s already neutered, but they need to implant a microchip. Microchipping. What the fuck. 

The sales kid explains this like having an electronic chip in an animal is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. _Like a bike!_ Like a fucking bike. Steve nudges him. “You should get a doggy bed.”

“Why?”

The kid looks mortified. “You can’t let your dog sleep with you. Encourages bad habits.” He can’t be more than sixteen. Billy is bemused that some teenager would give a fuck about where people let their dogs sleep. 

He waves his hands at both of them. “I came in for a nametag and you’ve drained me dry.” 

Walking back to Steve’s car, he huddles Buddy close to him. Kisses Buddy’s head for being a good boy while he was pulled about and had needles stuck in him. Rubs Buddy’s new tag between his fingers. Ignores Harrington watching them. 

\--

Billy’s feeling. Not delicate. But just. His knee hurts. And he’s officially broke. He doesn’t want to go back to his apartment where he’s got nothing in the fridge, but vodka. They sit in the back, Harrington opening a twelve-pack of garish _Walmart_ cupcakes, that Billy bogarts and eats three of in quick succession. Buddy’s wandering around his new surrounding. He dips his paw in the pool, unsure. 

“So. Erm. Do dogs go to Heaven?”

Billy licks crumbs outta a little paper liner. “Yeah.”

Steve chokes on a laugh. “I was kidding.”

“I’m not. They used to not have souls, but Pope Francis says it’s cool.” Billy kicks off his black suede _Addidas_. “You still got those shorts?”

Steve’s reeling from this information, leans his forearms on his thighs. He stares at Billy stripping of his shirt without really seeing. “If they didn’t have souls. What did they have?”

Billy unbuckles his belt. The smart one he always pairs with his sneakers to see mom. “Oh. No, it’s not like that. You don’t need a soul to be a living thing?”

Steve’s mouth falls open. “What?”

“Can we get in the pool?”

Steve finally gets his act together, leaning in through the sliding doors and chucks out the swim shorts that Billy borrowed. Left on the drying rack. He comes back wearing his own and with cans of coconut _La Croix_.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He takes a sip. “We can mix it with rum, if you want?”

Billy gets his elbows up on the pool ledge. “I’m good.” He beckons Buddy over. Calls out to Harrington, “Hey. Pass me a cupcake.” Steve puts one in his hands as he climbs into the water. Billy flakes the cake apart and lets Buddy lick curiously at it. He turns to face Harrington, childishly pouring sparkling water into his open mouth. “You think this is some kinda Caribbean resort?”

“Wish it fucking was.”

Billy twists his baseball cap backwards. Wades out a couple of feet. Hears Harrington behind him. “If you’re a living thing. Without a soul. Do you mean, like. Vampires?”

He tips back so that his knees float upward. “The fuck do I know.” The peak of his cap is damp against his neck. 

“You need to start going to church again. Ask that deviant priest of yours.”

Billy looks at Steve. What a guppy. Ducking his chin under the water, letting his mouth fill up like a tidepool. “Remember when people called you King Steve?”

“For like a week.”

“For like a year.”

“They were fucking bullying me, man. Fucking Chloe.” He flutters his lips together, bubbles surfacing. 

Steve’s sister is a tough chick. Backed by two older brothers she’d been invincible. She’d won Prom King. ‘Cause it was the Harrington legacy. ‘Cause she knew she could. ‘Cause she wanted to. When Steve got a shot at it, he had been expected to win, but Nancy dumped him. And he didn’t. Billy’s still not sure how the two are connected. He wasn’t around much for the last days of senior year. 

“Whatever.” Billy slurps at his can. He hovers his fingertips over Buddy’s paws, gently dripping water on him. Getting him used to it. “You’re an idiot.”

Steve was never fucking bullied. What a joke. Steve and Tommy used to fuck around, talking shit in school all the time. Just jostling the mental atmosphere amongst cocky freshmen. Desperate juniors. Rounded up their boys to call Jonathan a fag all the fucking time. Then look what happened. King fucking Steve. 

“No more an idiot than you are.”

Buddy barks. 

“What’s that meant to mean?”

Steve shrugs. “You didn’t have to go that hard. It was only basketball.”

“First of all.” Billy points his index finger at Steve. “That’s not what happened.” They’ve drifted close to one another. “Second of all. Don’t judge me.” He tilts his chin to the side. Pale blue eyes narrowing. Only fucking basketball.

Steve watches Billy’s temper rise. Jesus. His thick eyelashes flickering quickly. His tongue flashing irritably over his bottom lip. Fuck. He runs his fingers through his hair, it doesn’t flatten. He brushes past Billy’s shoulder. Heaves himself out of the pool. “I’m gonna get that rum.”

Little bitch. Since when did Harrington run away. If he had just left it. Minded his own fucking business that night outside Maggiorani’s. Billy follows him inside. Sits up on the counter all damp like. Picks straws out of a mason jar on the side. 

“Get your ass off my counter.” Steve pours generous servings of fucking _Malibu_ into tall glasses.

Billy cracks open a can of _La Croix_ and passes it to Steve. “You blame me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I should blame you, y’know.”

“Yeah? You gonna do that?”

“No. I’m just saying.“

“That’s your problem though, right? Always fucking saying something.”

“Excuse me?” 

Steve crushes the empty can between his hands. Looks at Billy with a kind of serene. Misunderstood or. Miscommunicated pity. He steps back and tosses it into the garbage. Pushes a glass towards Billy. Watches openly as Billy takes uninhibited gulps. Wipes his mouth the back of his hand. Steve draws his bottom lip into his mouth. Presses his tongue to it before speaking. “You just.” He nods minutely. Shoulder agreeing to the slight inflection. “You talk shit. It gets you in trouble.”

Billy’s glass comes down onto the marble counter louder than he expected. “Me. You’re describing me?” He puts his hand on his knee. “I’ve never punched above my weight in. A parking lot.”

“Nah.” Steve eyes Billy. “I don’t believe you.” This is stupid. Billy’s gotta be lying. Right. Billy’s been in more fights than Steve’s had bowls of cereal. And he eats a lot of fucking cereal. Billy’s got those fucking wolf canines he’s always fronting. He wears that Virgin Mary over his stacked chest like a shield. He’s definitely been in more stupid fights than the one Steve was. 

Billy takes his hat off. Runs his fingers through his hair. “Believe what you want.” Mouth pouty. Eyes light again. He’s yanking Steve’s chain. Surely. 

“Whatever.” Steve breathes a soft laugh. Tops Billy’s drink up. It’s getting dark, but he heads back out to sit on a lounger. 

Buddy yips at his heels.

\--

“Oh. You’ve still got the dog?” Frank wants to apologise. Or. He sent Billy a text with a coupla eggplant emojis, A-Okay emoji. Merman emoji. Jesus Christ. 

It’s late and Billy’s knee hurts even after spending hours in Harrington’s pool. Frank let himself into Billy’s apartment and has been met at the door by Buddy. Snuffling at his shitty. Too expensive _Fila_ kicks. The 80s aren’t back in. Tell that to the fannypack Frank has slung over his shoulder. 

Billy rolls his eyes. “What did you think I was gonna do with him.”

“I dunno.” Frank sits next to Billy on the couch. Kisses his cheek. Sorry, papa. _Sorry, man_. Empty handed though. Little bitch. “Thought that kid might have rounded up fucking. Friendly neighbourhood _Spiderman_ or some shit. Take him off your hands.”

Sometimes. Frank sees a movie on cable. And then like. References it. Wrongly. Billy raises an eyebrow at him. “Right.” He sighs. “I got him microchipped. Or whatever.”

Buddy hops up onto Billy’s lap. Avoiding his bad knee. He’s a damn good dog. 

“Why?”

“Guess he’s mine now.” Billy rubs at Buddy’s ears. Dead soft. He looks all scraggy, but he’s dead soft. Billy figures he should give him a bath at some point though. 

“Great.”

He frowns at Frank. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” 

Billy waits.

Frank abruptly, heavily sits back. Head rocking against the back of the couch. Throws his hands up. “You can’t walk, man.” They fall leadweight to his thighs. “You’re gonna do something stupid. And you’ll go back to where you were before physio.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Billy can’t afford physio any more. He’s meant to practice slow stretching. And. Gentle exercise. Swimming. And not drive. Or work a job where you have to stand up for ten hours straight. 

Frank shakes his head. “Alright. Whatever you want, babe.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Hey.” Makes no attempt to move his leg off the coffee table. “I’m only gonna fuck you if you’re here to take me to work tomorrow.”

‘Cause Frank’s the most obnoxious bastard Billy has ever met, he indiscreetly slides his hands under Billy. To pick him up, bridal style. Purrs dumbly at him, “Babe. I’m gonna fuck you so good, you won’t be able to go to work.”

Jesus fucking Christ. 

\--

Frank’s asleep ‘cause he’s a fucking jerk. Billy’s not quite comfortable. He sort of wants to kick Frank out. His knee is threatening to start hurting, but he won’t be able to take any pills. Bad timing. He sort of wants to wake Frank up. Get him to watch trick shot videos with him on _Youtube_. He‘s sort of mooching through his kitchen. Picking at saltines. Swigging at a family bottle of flat _Mountain Dew_. He should brush his teeth. 

A sleepy Buddy putters around after him. 

He’s slicing an over-ripe banana when Marcella calls. “Is Frank with you?”

“Hmm.”

“That makes things difficult.”

“Yeah?”

“Nico got arrested.”

“Oh. Difficult.”

Nobody in this conversation is surprised by this. Marcella and Frank’s cousin has been arrested. A lot. Just in the last fucking year. Nevermind whatever the fuck he got up to before he went to juvie. It’s hot out, but there’s a snide June breeze threatening the cancellation of summer. Not ideal for driving to the station and picking up the dumbass in the middle of the night. Marcella’s scouting for volunteers. 

“You wanna wake him?”

Billy shrugs to himself. Holds out a circle of banana to Buddy. “I can do that.” He doesn’t bother putting Marcella on hold. He shuffles into the bedroom. Just sort of. Flops onto the mattress, his side mashing into Frank’s. His phone bounces on the pillow as his elbows knock either side of Frank’s head. Gets all up close and personal with Frank’s face. 

Frank’s kinda pretty. Billy figures. He’s got boyish cheeks. Soft up by the bones, but rough with vanity stubble. His dark curls that he slicks back, leaving smears on Billy’s pillowcases. He’s so fucking annoying. And Billy fucking wishes that. Nothing, it’s just. Frank always has his back. Except when he really fucking doesn’t. He flattens his tongue all gross like over the whole of Frank’s mouth, drags it over his philtrum. Bites the tip of his nose.

Franks gasps ugly over phlegm in his throat, sleep unreserved. Startles, instinctively pushes at Billy. “Wha’?”

Billy kisses him. Quick. Just to be polite. Smoothes the flat of his fingers over the crown of Frank’s head. Keeps their mouths close together when he whispers, “You wanna go get Nico?”

“No. Fuck.” He cranes his neck, shoulders ruffling the sheets, not going far but to press to the back of Billy’s biceps.

“’Kay.” 

He goes to move away but Frank tips his chin up. Lips not really doing much more than smacking together. He sucks absentmindedly at Billy’s bottom lip, like he’s settling in, drifting off to sleep. “No wait. We’ll go get him.” 

Billy heaves himself up over Frank, gets his mouth close to his phone. “M’cella. Frank’s going.” 

He doesn’t hear her answer, but there’s no coherence at four in the morning. He hangs up. Rubs his cheek against his pillow. Groans as untangles his legs from Frank, curls so that his tummy is comfortably squished into the rucked up duvet, carefully balances his knee on top. 

Frank’s forearm slaps into his spine. “You’re coming with me.” 

_No I’m not_. Billy’s hand dangles over the side of the bed and Buddy licks at it. “Nope.” He cups his palm around Buddy’s neck, encourages him closer. 

The ceiling light firecrackers the room, making Billy clench his eyes shut tight and Buddy woofs, spooked. Fuck. 

It’s quiet on the drive out to downtown Hawkins. Billy refused to get dressed. Slouched in Frank’s passenger seat wearing his sleep-sweat gross _Ellesse_ tee. Messing with his pill bottle to keep Buddy amused and still in the foot-well. Frank drives a real hideous _Range Rover_ that Billy knows Cez chips in for every month ‘cause Frank’s spoilt. 

“Hey.” The back of Frank’s hand hits Billy in the thigh. He doesn’t take his eyes of the road. “You ‘kay?” Squeezes Billy’s muscle through his too-thin skinny joggers. 

Billy links their fingers together. He’s being fucking gay. But he doesn’t care. “Yeah.” Frank pulls away, grips the steering wheel. Ten and Two. Billy slides his pills into his pocket and jabs at the fucking _Back to the Future_ touch-screen console to alter the temperature. It’s fucking cold. He looks at Frank. His roman nose.

He looks out the window. Neck goospimpling, knowing Frank’s turned to pay him back. Billy waits until Frank clears his throat. Hears Frank squirm in his seat, road cat’s eyes out in front making it difficult for him to focus so late. Billy chases Frank. A tired-shine over his dark eyes. “Did you ever wanna go to college?”

“What?”

“College.”

Frank crosses a hand over his body, flexes his fingers around his own bicep. “No.” He frowns. “Why?”

“It’s what people do, right?”

“Rich people.”

“Right.”

If Billy’s honest, Frank’s confirmed all his suspicions about the world. That there are those who are blessed and then there are those who say they are blessed. And go to like. Fucking church or. The mall. _McDonalds_ to try and prove that they are. _Look how blessed I am._

“Look. You’re super fucking young.” 

“What?”

“Nothing. You are, though.”

“Right. And. You’re old?”

“Kinda.”

Billy tugs Buddy up onto his good leg. Frank swaps hands on the wheel, puts one back onto Billy’s thigh. “I’m just saying that basketball isn’t the only set-back you’re going to face.”

“That’s not what happened.”

Frank looks at him for a dangerously long time, until Billy jiggles his knee, shifting his attention. He faces front. “O-kay.” His voice goes deep around the o, mocking Billy. 

“Whatever man.”

“Sure thing, babe.”

Billy stays in the car, watches as Frank fucking forgets what he’s doing and locks the doors as he heads across the deserted parking lot into the station. Buddy barks. Billy tips his head back and sighs loudly. He gets Buddy snuggled into the crook between his hip and the door. Opens the glove compartment. It’s empty. Christ. Frank’s not even a good host in his fucking car. 

Buddy snuffles. Puts his head on his paws and closes his eyes. Billy decides that, that is not a bad idea. 

\--

It’s his own whine in the pit of his chest that wakes him up enough to realise that his phone is vibrating. He checks the screen. It’s been over an hour. It’s six in the morning. And Harrington has text him. It’s a picture of Steve’s clothed mid-drift. Billy brain is tired-tattered trying to figure if Steve is attempting to sext him before work. Christ. 

He stares blankly for a while longer when he twigs that Steve is wearing his visiting belt. He must have left it there. 

_Dick._

_Sunglasses emoji._

“Fuck, Nico. Fucking.” Frank’s screaming from the entrance of the station at the petulant back of his cousin. Christ. Does Frank want to get arrested. 

Nico slam-tugs at the car door. Viciously wrenching his wrist as it stays stubbornly closed. Frank takes his sweet time catching up and unlocks. Silently sits. Looks at Nico in the rear-view mirror. Billy’s not sure how old Nico is. He’s got this creepy. _Peter Pan_ , timeless vibe. He’s probably still a minor. 

Billy twists at the waist to look at Nico. Frank is furiously typing. Billy hopes he’s messaging Marcella to say they won’t be going into work today. Nico ignores him, looks past Billy to the back of Frank’s head. Says, “Can we go to _Mickey D's_?”

Frank says no, but drives them there anyway. He sends Billy in _’cause I’ve done enough legwork today_. Billy doesn’t think Frank’s awake enough to realise the absolute prize pun he’s put out there as he stumbles through the _Golden Arches_ , uncapping his pill bottle. 

A too-bright looking woman behind the counter is piling about a thousand hash browns into a paper bag for Steve fucking Harrington. Billy rolls his eyes. He jostles into Steve’s shoulder. Tucks his index finger into his belt. His fucking fancy belt. The one he hangs up after every trip to St Agatha’s. And pulls. “What the fuck are you doing up this early?”

Miss McDonald herself clucks at Billy’s language. Steve hipchecks him. “Getting breakfast.” Steve forces Billy to tell her his order and pays _Don’t wanna bother her twice._

Billy leans away, heavily on his right leg. “Hmm. Well. Guess I’ll owe you then.” He looks at the floor.

Steve snorts. Thrusts the bag at Billy. “Take your fucking food, you beast.” He’s grinning. Like he thinks Billy really is going eat enough for three. And that’s okay. Like he didn’t mind buying half the fucking menu for Billy. Again. Like he thinks it’s okay for Billy to gorge himself on that much food and he’s happy to foot the bill. “Anyway.” He sticks his ass out, model-pose. “You’re lending me your belt.” He’s a fucking dork. 

“I need that back.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Billy walks with Steve to his car, listening. Sort of. As Steve tells him about the female basketball team at _UNH_. Steve doesn’t ask Billy if he’s coming with, but he keeps talking as he gets into the driver’s seat. Expecting. Billy wraps his knuckle against the passenger side window. Steve looks at him. Brings the window down, eyes following. His eyes scan over Billy like he’s probably thinking he needs better pyjamas. 

Billy leans on the ledge. “Wait for me, ‘kay? I’ll be right back.”

He knows Harrington is looking. Watching him lurch his way over to Frank and Nico. His dumb fucking leg. He’s never going to have that sexy, walking away swagger-thing. Ever a-fucking-gain. 

Frank and Nico are arguing when Billy opens the passenger door to let Buddy hop out. He tosses the bag of _McDonald’s_ at Frank. Who choke interuppts himself in surprise. “Hey-“

“Harrington’s giving me a ride.”

Frank might yell across a parking lot at his stupid cousin, but he’s not gonna do the same for his side-chick.

\--

Steve goes to guide them into the kitchen, but Billy is never going to eat at a fucking breakfast bar. Or a brunch nook. So he turns down the hall to the little lounge that’s obviously not the main living room. The one with the sliding doors that lead out to the pool. 

He makes himself at home. Unlocks the doors. Lets Buddy wander out to sit in the shade of a lounger. 

Billy suddenly feels ravenous, but he doesn’t have his food. He grabs at Harrington’s hash browns he left on the glass table. Billy sits down on the huge, over-stuffed white couch and digs in. He’s got his pinky in his mouth, sucking grease away, ring catching on his bottom teeth when Steve walks in with orange juice. His belt looks good on him. Steve looks like something on one of those aesthetic lifestyle blogs. All gold watch twinkling in the light streaming in through the big windows. Pale chinos rolled up at the ankles. 

He sits next to Billy. Doesn’t say anything about his breakfast. Takes a sip of his drink. “So how long you been fucking him?”

Billy’s finger pops as he draws it from his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You say that a lot.”

“Yeah.” Billy blows air out through his cheeks. “Guess I’m just fucking checking what I’m hearing nowadays.” He tucks his hair behind his ears. Mumbles to himself, “Always fucking talking shit at me. Like I fucking care.” Pointlessly tries to tidy up the empty ketchup packets, slick wrappers. 

“Were you fucking him a year ago?”

“What? Like whether I’d had that dick or not changes the fact that you got your ass handed to you?”

“No. Just. I mean. That’s why your dad was mad, right?”

Billy is not playing another round of dad-fuck-ups. It’s boring. “No.”

“Right.” Steve pokes him in the side. “But maybe he’s got a point. That guy’s a creep.”

Billy can feel his eyes getting wide staring at Harrington in absolute fucking disbelief. In what reality does Harrington think that Neil. Neil fucking Hargrove. Is worried about creeps lurking around his fucking mess of a son. If anything. Neil would be all on board for Billy to find the trashiest fucking dick he could. If that was the alternative to. Well. 

The thing is. Neil’s never acknowledged Billy’s sexuality. He’s never called him a fag. Never made any pointed remarks about Billy’s hair or his clothes. Never tried to drag him to fucking _Monster Trucks_ ‘cause that’s something that Billy probably would have enjoyed. Never made any telling comments when _Matt Damon_ played a fucking queer in that film about that piano guy on _HBO_. Or whatever. 

But he knew. ‘Cause Billy was a dumb fucking seven-year-old. Who couldn’t shut the fuck up to mom in St Agatha’s telling her all a-fucking-bout Steve Harrington. The nice boy with the freckles and the _Pixar Cars_ toys who let new-kid Billy play with him. 

Then Billy was a dumb fucking sixteen-year-old who went to homecoming with a boy. He’d been dragged back from California, having received puberty like a gift from the gods. Soft hips and thighs that were thick with muscle and a strong jaw that didn’t quit. All sun-painted. He didn’t think anything of it. Thought he was invisible. The future punishment that California had been parcel tapped inside far from his mind. 

Except. That’s how Neil rolls. Plays games that turn Billy’s world on a dime, split second. They didn’t go together. Him and Aaron. That wasn’t allowed. They just went together. And if Billy’s dark red, currant-coloured shirt matched Aaron’s tie well. That was just cute. But Neil knew. And Neil did what he always did. If Billy had gone with a girl. He would have done the same. It didn’t matter. It still doesn’t matter. 

“Frank’s my friend.” Billy feels blindsided. Junk food drunk. 

“You need better friends.”

Billy lunges at him. He gets Harrington pressed on his back on the couch, but he snags his knee, twisting awkwardly and grits his teeth. Harrington’s stronger now. And Billy’s not been to the gym in a real long time. “Fuck you.” He spits down at him. 

Harrington grips Billy’s wrists in his hands. The bone grinding. He flips them and Billy shouts, his knee unused to so much movement. Billy’s breathing heavy through his nose. Steve keeps eye-contact. Gaze brown-sugar soft. “Just settle.”

Billy continues to struggle. His knee throbs. He pulls his feet up onto the cushion. Soles flat. Knees caging Steve in as though he’s thinking about flipping them again. Steve rocks forward, pushes Billy’s wrists over his head. “You’re good,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.” Voice a rumble that Billy feels in his stomach at the same time that he feels Steve press his dick against his. 

Steve move his hands, scraps his fingers through Billy’s tangled curls. Holds Billy’s neck. Strokes his thumbs over his Adam’s apple. Shifts his hips. Billy sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. Grin cracked in the corner, leering at Harrington. “Yeah?” He swallows loudly. “This how you like me? On my back?” He reaches out to unbuckle his belt, tugs down Harrington’s zipper. “Fucking. Vulnerable?” His eyelashes flutter as Steve grinds against him.

“No,” he pants. “Jesus. Shut up.” He arches his back. Changes the angle. Billy moans softly, but slaps his palm, not hard. Just a sting. At Harrington’s cheek when he goes to kiss him. 

Harrington sits up straight, on his knees. Looks like he’s trying not to look hurt. Tugs at Billy’s thighs, dragging him closer, squeezing. Before bending forward again. The friction better this time. He mouth his way around the collar of Billy’s tee. Spit-damp. Bites down onto the meat of Billy’s shoulder. Makes him hiss. Makes his tummy swoop, his abdomen feel fuzzy. Makes sweat prickle on his tailbone. Makes him come. 

Harrington stuffs his hand into his white _Calvin Klein_. Fists his hand around his dick, just the tip peaking. As though he’s shy. Billy watches. Eyebrows lowered in concentration. Watches as Harrington speeds up. Watches as he tips forward, quickly shoving Billy’s tee up to his chest, coming over his skin. 

He pushes at Harrington slumped over. They lie quietly. Listening to Buddy’s doggy snores from outside. It’s early still. Birds are still waking up. The morning breeze rustles the rubbish on the table. Steve grazes his teeth over the shell of Billy’s ear. “Don’t fall asleep here, come upstairs.”

\--

As he’s tamping his way down the stairs, following Harrington, he checks his phone. He’s got a voice message. _Hey, erm. Billy. This is Max. Neil said that you’d pick us up from school today. It's half-day? End of the year. Erm. We’re just. Y’know. Here. No, shuddup, Dustin. Okay. Bye._ It’s nearly three. Fuck.


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who took the time to ask.  
> i genuinely thought of you every time i failed to get this finished.

Marcella’s thinking about Timothee Chalamet. His gaunt face hogging the space on the newsstand that morning. ‘Chesca telling her that Americans have no taste. ‘Chesca telling her that Frank is damn lucky about it. And cackling. 

She’s tired as fuck. Fucking Nico. She’s facing the front window of the parlour, but not seeing anything. Thinking instead. Is he Italian. Those curls. Just like Frank’s. Her friend, Marcus. Had taken her to the fancy theatre the town over, to watch that damn peach movie. Gay as fuck. Not that. Not that she’s thinking that’s a bad thing. She doesn’t think anything about it. Just. Did he have to do that with the peach. Fucking, have to?

“Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” Max’s voice is high whine that makes Marcella wince. She’s used to kids. They’re always around, choking on pizza, getting cheese everywhere. But Max sounds. Distressed. Like something she might become responsible for. 

Marcella’s not a fan of that. “Kid, I tol’ ya. He’s not answering his phone.”

“Yeah. But. Can’t you do something?” Her red hair is spilling all over the front counter and Marcella wants to reach for the lemon spray. Get her away. Like a cat. “Aren’t you his boss?

She snorts, “No.”

“Yeah, but. You should know where your workers are, right?”

Marcella looks the young woman Max has dragged in with her. Up and down. She’s got tiny, little twig legs that end with low-top white _Converse_. She’s wearing a washed-out pink _Ellesse_ tee that Marcella has seen on Billy. Knows he only wears to bed when Frank sleeps over. She’s holding back a snigger. Billy’s with his cute-ass tee. Special occasion pyjamas. For her goddamn ungrateful brother. 

“Workers.” She says it slow. Lips close over the w, catching on the k. Disdain lengthening the er. 

The woman rolls her eyes and puts her hands on Max’s shoulders. “C’mon, Max.”

“No.” Max shrugs. All teen girl. “Nancy. They always know where Billy is.” She thrusts her hands at Marcella, vaguely gesturing at the whole restaurant. 

Max’s blue eyes are as silvery as those _Finding Nemo_ school fish. Marcella at fourteen would have been jealous as anything. She looks over her shoulder, Frank leaning in the kitchen doorway, eyes dark and low. Mouth, bored. 

Marcella sighs. Digs her phone out of her pocket. Tabs her thumb on Billy’s name. Glittery rhinestone imbedded in orange nail polish reflecting the light. Presses speaker, so that Max can hear the dial. When it clicks over to voicemail, Max groans. 

“I tol’ ya, kid.” She folds her arms. When Frank turned half way through opening-up, Nico in tow. No Billy. Marcella had asked. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. Frank had. Well. He’d made a bold use of the q-word. Considering. Everything. Marcella thinks about the fucking peaches. Queer. Is that okay to say now. She’s not sure. Nobody talks about this shit ‘round here. Like it’s still 19fucking84. Jesus. 

She looks at Nancy’s gold belt buckle. “Hey. You know that boy? Seth?”

“Steve.”

“Sure. Steve.”

“Yeah.” Nancy looks away from Marcella. Like she’s trying to avoid saying any more. 

“Maybe he’s with him?”

Nancy’s nose wrinkles. “Why?”

Max bounces on her toes. “They’re friends.” She smacks her palms on the counter. “C’mon.” She’s out the door before Nancy or Marcella can say anything else. 

Nancy says, “Are they?”

Marcella shrugs. Hears Frank’s sneakers squeak on the lino. “Sure.”

Slipping the tip of her little fingernail over her teeth, Nancy chews delicately over Billy’s name. “Billy. He.” She crosses her arms. Mirroring Marcella. “Steve always wanted to be his friend.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rise. That’s not what it sounded like. Marcella doesn’t know anything about the fight. Wasn’t there when it happened. But had heard various repetitions of the story. Sometimes outlandish. Sometimes a dry reminiscence. Always pointless. 

She’s met him a coupla times now. Can never get the image of Steve Harrington fixed in her head. Sometimes some random Spencer. Sometimes some badass Sam. Always the boy Billy hates. Marcella says, “I like your t-shirt.”

Nancy circles her index fingers around the shells of her ears, tucking flyaway hair back. Looks around the parlour like she’s probably never coming back. Returns the girl code. “Thanks. I like your nails.” Half out the door, voice lazy. Earnest, but not sincere. 

\--

It’s not like it’s cheating. He’s not cheating on Frank. He’s just. Hanging out with Steve. Let Steve push his way between his legs, pull his knees around his waist, accidently finding and stroking that space at the back of his thighs that makes him feel all. Content. To add to that, fat and satisfied. And anyway. Frank’s got that thing. 

That thing where he won’t let Billy touch him in public. Will ludicrously kiss his cheek and play it off as bro culture. Will bitch at him in front of Marcella, but not invite him to dinner. Frank’s probably fucking Casey too. Which. Billy doesn’t wanna spend too long thinking about. Frank leaves him hungry. And it’s exhausting. 

Billy knows he should return Max’s phone call. Knows that. Potentially. Potentially she might be worried about him. Steve had told him not to sweat it. He’d cursed and slapped Billy on the back. _Sorry, man._ But come on. Was anyone bussing you around at their age? 

No. No there hadn’t been. Billy had walked everywhere. And nowhere. Stayed locked in his room. 

He’d let Steve pull on his wrist. Drag him into the home cinema room. As though they were buddies. As though Billy didn’t mind King Steve. Adult Steve. Sloppy fucking handjob Steve. Let me just finger you nicely. _Fuck off_ Steve Harrington all up in his space. Billy had made him leave the door open. He’s not letting no rich prick murder him in the bluelight of a mammoth TV screen. 

Steve’s not wearing a shirt. He didn’t bother tidying up. After they’d napped in Steve’s huge bed with the white linen. The duvet drowning them, heavy overstuffed, but cool and billowing air between the sheets. The sash window open blowing a warm breeze that could almost pretend to smell like salt water. 

Billy did. Made plans about staying under the shower for days. Underwater like. All of Steve’s toiletries were in a travel case by the bathroom door. Which was weird. But Billy had ruthlessly pillaged them anyway. His biceps feel weirdly sticky from a Christmas-themed body moisturiser. 

If Billy were Steve, he would get dressed ‘cause Steve’s got an ugly fucking _mandala_ tattoo between his shoulder blades that didn’t seem like something worth messing with before. But now. Now they’ve fucked. And it’s ugly. 

He sits on the floor. ‘Cause he’s not sitting in a fucking iMax seat in the Harrington’s basement. Buddy had shuffled in after them. Put a paw on Billy’s outstretched legs, checking on him. Billy scritched his fingers over Buddy’s fur. Feels Steve do the same to him. Blunt nails on his neck, running through the downy blonde behind his ears. He looks up at Steve, thinking he’s fucking about, but Steve’s eyes are on Ted Danson. The devil or God. Billy’s not been following the show completely. Mouth hanging open. Fucking guppy. 

Steve must sense Billy watching him. “You okay down there, bud?”

Billy nods. Grips Steve’s knee so that he can leverage himself up into the chair next to him. Fuck sitting on the floor. Buddy jumps up too. Settles himself in Billy’s lap. The chairs are huge and he feels further away from Steve like this. He can’t tell if that’s okay. Buddy wriggles onto his back, sticks his hind legs into Steve’s side. Making the decision for Billy. Steve squeezes his paws. Grunts like his thoughts are coming up for air. “You ever. You think much about Cali’?”

The abbreviation sounds stupid in Steve’s mouth. California. Billy pushes at Buddy so that he’s curled on the joining arm of the seats. Balanced between them. “No. Not really.” He lies. “It’s warmer. It’s. I dunno. It smells different.” He thinks about Teddy. Thinks about _Donald Duck_ and being too. Worried. Ashamed. Something. Having stomach ulcers and not being on Teddy’s medical insurance. Says, “You missing New Hampshire?”

“Not really.”

For a minute Billy is quiet. He licks his bottom lip. “You miss here when you’re out there?”

Steve sighs. “Nah. It’s all.” Flips the remote between his thumb and index finger. “It’s all just roads and people.”

Billy looks at him. “Yeah. I guess. Roads and people.” 

\--

“He does this every time. Every goddamn time.” 

“He’s a good kid, though, Neil. He’s got a job-“

“Everything I did for him, Susan. Everything and he throws it away. Every time. Every goddamn time.” 

“He’s good with Max. And that dog now-“

“-Getting him away from her. Getting him out of that goddamn city.” 

“Sweet thing.” She wrinkles her nose. “It limps. Like Billy. Did you notice?”

“Christ, Susan.“ 

She looks down. “Sorry.” Orders orange juice for the both of them. Like she always does. Lets Neil order their food. She looks up. “Isn’t it strange?”

Neil seethes. “Strange?”

“Billy and Max. They maybe skated-“ she makes a soft sound. A fluttery little sound. “-past each other at Dockweiler.” She sips her juice. “Not even realising.” 

Neil glares. 

“Funny world.” 

\--

As far as Nancy is aware, Max is. At best, unsure about her brother. Step-brother. As far as Nancy is aware, she herself is unsure about Billy. It’s a funny world. She came back from college for the summer and found herself with a little girl in her car more often than not. 

Mike is a boy. And mean. Nancy isn’t sure where he gets it from. A sort of exasperated indifference. That has lasted too long to just be teen spirit. It’s his personality. He kind of. She’s sort of, skirting around the thought. Because. Who is she to make such comparisons, but in a funny way. He’s a bit. Billy-like. 

Not that Nancy. Not that Nancy knows anything about Billy. Not really. He was in school for a bit. Then he wasn’t. Then he was. Him and Steve got into it. And then. That was it. Time’s up. They left Hawkins. Billy got a job. 

Max said to Nancy, at Steve’s barbeque. “He came back a year before me and mom moved here.” 

“Came back from where?”

“California. That’s weird, right?” Sipping _Fanta_.

“Maybe. A coincidence.” Nancy thought, is it. Is it a coincidence. Nobody moves to Hawkins. 

Nobody, but Billy. But then. There’s his mom. 

And his dad. Which, gee. Nancy wouldn’t want to face him alone. He unnerves her. That Christmas he’d come to their house. Mumbling, begging to see her mom. _Mrs Wheeler. Mrs Wheeler, you’ll help. Help Billy and me, won’t you. Won’t you._

And well. Nancy supposes she did. Supposes everyone did. All those nice things people used to say about Billy. Teachers holding his workbooks up as good examples. Diane at the Food Co, _the blonde sweetheart who buys mints for his momma?_. The football team who followed Aaron’s lead and would sit with him at lunch. Not caring or pretending not to care. Even though. They knew. Everyone knew. 

Steve knew. Steve knew and wasn’t shy about it either. Drunkenly giggling locker-room gossip at Nancy in he cool of quarry’s endless summer like he didn’t think it was insulting. Or two-faced. Like stuff like that wasn’t still a big deal in Hawkins. It was and it is. And any way Steve was supposed to be looking at her. He was supposed to be only looking at her. Junior year was horrible. 

But this is not Junior year. And now. She’s helping Billy. 

“You still wanna go to the trampoline park, tomorrow?”

Max chews at her thumbnail. “Maybe.” She cranes her neck, following the movement of Nancy’s car as it turns onto Steve’s street. Not listening as Nancy mumbles about tumble turns and the right bounce to gravity ratio. Nancy’s front teeth clinch together primly as she hears herself. Sounds like her mother. Sounds old, sharing pointless tips about something that doesn’t matter. 

Feels older still at the sight of the green house ahead. Coming to Steve’s house doesn’t feel like coming to an ex-boyfriend’s house. Not that. Nancy has much experience. It’s just. She always feels like. Even when her and Steve were dating. She always felt that coming to the Harrington place was like going to _The Lounge Grill_ , her parents’ favourite restaurant in the city. It’s nice. It’s special. But not. Satisfying. 

“Billy? No, he’s not here.” Steve shakes his hair outta his eyes. Runs his hand through it. 

“He was though, right?” Nancy folds her arms. 

Steve is still a jerk. Bites his lip. Looks up at her from lowered eyelids. “Yeah,” voice crawling, sex-lazy. Orgasm fucking dumb. 

Max punches him in the thigh. “Thanks, man.” Nancy’s not sure if Max is being sarcastic or not until she turns tail and pouts loudly back to the car. She wonders if Max can tell. 

“What’s eating her?”

Nancy sighs. “Billy was meant to pick her up.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. No, I know. I heard the message. He got the message.” Steve kneads his knuckles into the muscle above his knee. 

Her thin eyebrows pinch at her glabella. “So…” She waves her hand in Max’s direction.

“What?” Steve pushes held air from the back of his throat forward, scornful. Leans back from his waist, bored. “She doesn’t need picking up.”

“Neil says she does.”

Steve and Nancy consider each other carefully. Nancy remembers breaking up with Steve. Telling him she didn’t understand. That it was bullshit any way. That it didn’t matter. That they were running out of time. That weight of the days running out feels like a wet mist on her shoulders now, she can taste the minerals of wasted seconds, but can’t. Can’t for the life her explain what the rush was. Or what she felt she was planning for or. She’s on college time now. And that’s not real. 

“That guy’s nuts, right?”

Nancy taps the toe of her sneaker on Steve’s porch. “The Hargroves are. Kinda.”

Steve laughs softly. Puts his hands on his hips. Smiles, like Nancy’s telling him his crush is bad news. Again. 

She says, “Why d’you go down to the pizza place that night?” She tries to halt the blush crossing her cheeks. “I-just. I mean, that place is real tragic, how’d you even know that-.” She huffs, looks at Steve. “What was done, was done. It was only basketball.”

He sighs. Steps forward so that she has to move her idle foot and he sits down in its place. He’s silent for so long, that she tentatively sits down next to him. Together they watch the dry fountain not spurt streams of water across the Harrington drive. 

“I dunno. I guess it wasn’t.”

The blare of Nancy’s car horn careens through the end of Steve’s sentence. She jumps up and yells alright, alright at Max. “Steve? Wasn’t what?”

“Only basketball.” 

Steve holds his arm up, tips his hand like he expects her to shake it and she does. Because she’s polite. Too polite sometimes. That sense of damp quarry mist lingers around her wrist and she thinks about how even though there was an EMT snapping an oxygen mask to Billy’s face, while he lay out in agony on the court. That scout leaned over him, hand thrust downward for Billy to shake _Sorry, son_.

\--

Buddy’s all kitted out now and Billy doesn’t think anybody would try to take him or call the ASPCA on him, but he’s not happy at tying Buddy up outside the mall. It’s just. He needed to get out of Harrington’s house. Needs to do something to not be thinking about King Steve. And Harrington’s whatever, that made Billy for the first time in his life not follow up on an order from Neil. 

Fucking _Body Shop_. They don’t have what Billy’s looking for. Something that looks like it could clear up the red. Whatever. The red patches that have shown up on skin. Could help him sleep at night. Mend his knee. Make Frank give a fuck. He untwists the cap of a lotion. Discretely sniffs at it. Eyes lifting to check the girl behind the counter isn’t watching. 

“Billy.” 

Jesus. He quickly pretends not to have been about to stick his middle finger into the centre of the white cream. Shoves it back on the shelf. Tries to smile at Georgie.

“Where ya been, man?” Georgie grips his bicep tightly. Squeezes. Georgie’s voice sounds how the chamomile should smell.

Billy shrugs. “Around.” Puts his hands in his pockets. 

“You’re my best customer man. Fucking quiet, hey.“

Billy goes to rock back on heels. And then remembers. For the millionth time. “You know how it is.”

Georgie looks like he’s fully willing to pretend that he knows how it is. He nods his head in the direction of the counter. “My girl has a show. You should come.” Billy feels bad about the lotion he was about to destroy. Not enough to buy it though. 

Fuck. Billy should have gone to _Lush_. He’d take the faux-mermaid bullshit, with their seal smiles. Desperate to sell him shit, over this. 

Georgie reaches for the razor burn on Billy’s cheek. “Not seen you for while.” His eyes go all narrow like he knows he’s repeating himself. Mouth an unsure tunnel over the middle of the sentence. Over-thinking. Dragging out vowels. 

Billy’s top lip is a mess. Wispy blonde hair coming through that he’s not feeling up to shaving. That he left. In the hopes he’d manage to drag up the courage to go back to Georgie’s. He can’t really grow a beard. The skin on his cheeks and chin too delicate. It’s come up all blotchy after spending too long in Harrington’s pool. It’s itchy too. In the tender corner-meet of his elbows. The backs of his knees. 

“I. erm.” Billy’s eyes linger on the sharp line of Georgie’s collarbone. Highlighted by the navy stretch-material of his suspenders. No leather today. Off the clock. Billy rubs the back of his neck. Wishes he had his cap on. 

Georgie grins. Taps the shelf near them. “Don’t buy this shit, ‘kay?” He bends forward at the waist. “Come by the shop. I’ll give you something nice for. That.” He strokes down over his own glossy, mahogany beard. 

He doesn’t wait for Billy to answer. Tugs at Billy’s wrist like they’re in third grade before letting go. Billy watches him jog over to his girl. Hears him tell her he likes the hemp hand cream. Winks at Billy. 

Billy tries not blush and shuffles out. He supposes it’s for his own good. He doesn’t have any money any way. Curls his fingers around his wallet, thinks about how many journeys he’s got left on his bus card and about how he’s been lucky. The driver on the way here let him get Buddy on for free. His knee jerks, like it does whenever he thinks about transport for too long. 

If anyone were looking for him. Which he doesn’t think they are. Just the little limpets in his life that he cant seem to shake no matter how hard he brushes up against rough rock. If anyone were looking for him, he’d kill for a ride right about now. All that time spent at Harrington’s. In the pool. In bed. Billy blinks, spends too long with eyes closed. His fucking knee sees that as permission to lag behind and he nearly trips. Throws his arms out to steady himself on thin air, shakes his hands. Clicks his teeth at himself, shakes his head. Spots his dad and Susan walking towards him. Shit. 

He keeps his body angled away from his dad, like he won’t make him turn and face him as soon as he’s close enough. 

“Where have you been?”

Billy hears Susan’s heels tapper on the concrete on the parking lot, like they too are whispering for Neil to quieten down. 

“Where the fuck have you been? You were supposed to pick the kids up from school.”

Billy loops Buddy’s leash around his forearm. Keeps his eyes on the ground. “No I wasn’t.” Fucking risky. 

Neil puts the palm on his hand heavy on Billy’s shoulder. He looks his dad in the eyes. 

“Some girl. Some girl called, Nancy? Brought her home. Who the fuck is Nancy?”

He wants to close his eyes. Wants to lie down. “She’s a friend.” He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what he can say. Neil should know who the fuck Nancy is.

Susan says, “Oh, Billy. Remind me the name of your dog?”

Neil and Billy watch as she pats Buddy’s head like he’s a small china ornament. Billy swallows. “Buddy.”

“Buddy.”

Neil roughs his hand over the back of Billy’s shirt, shakes him a bit, which from afar maybe _cool dog, man_. But really is just. Neil being Neil. He pats Billy on the cheek, reminding him to pick up his phone next time. Susan gives him a wave as they head back to the car. 

Billy nearly calls out to ask for a lift. 

\--

“You look like you’ve got impetigo or some shit.”

“What the fuck is impetigo?”

Frank pinches his cheek. Billy twists his shoulders, tries to get past him to the kitchen. “Ya know. Dumb little kids get it. Makes their mouth go all red, ‘cause they spend all day sucking dick.”

“You’re disgusting. What the fuck are you talking about.”

“Look babe, I don’t make the rules. But I’m not kissing you with that rash.”

“It’s not that bad.” Billy sets the kettle on the hob to boil. Leans back against the sink. Jesus he’s just got in and Frank’s here. For god knows how long. Fucking. Waiting for him. He scratches his elbow. “Anyway. ‘Snot like I’m asking for a kiss.” Watches as Buddy sits down next to his crossed ankles. 

Frank links his fingers around Billy’s neck. Breathes heavy. Like he thinks stinking up Billy’s space with his peppermint, day-old coffee scent is fucking. Sexy. Billy keeps his eyes on the small cross that sits on Frank’s sternum. “And. What the fuck are you doing in my house.”

“Oh. It’s like that is it?” Frank titters lowly. 

“Hmmm.” He puts his hands on Frank’s hips. Buddy barks. 

Frank steps back, pulls his phone out of pocket. Texts while Billy makes them both tea. It’s black and bitter. And Frank will pretend to drink it. He reaches for the _AmEx_ promotional mug that was here before Billy and has become Frank’s over time. 

He takes too soon, too hot loud sips, still looking at his phone. Billy taps his index fingernail against the edge of an opened microwave packet of rice and peas he’s left on the counter. He frowns. Or that Frank helped himself to. 

His own phone pings. Steve’s sent him a picture of a tub of birthday cake _Ben and Jerry’s_. Like that means fucking anything to Billy. He cracks his neck. 

“Hey, come on.” He looks up at the sound of Frank’s voice hollering from the hallway.

“Why?”

Frank’s head re-appears around the doorframe. “We’ve got work.”

“Oh my fucking God.”

Frank laughs obnoxiously. 

“I’m not going.”

Frank does that thing that makes him sound a bit like _Barney the Dinosaur_. Makes sure Billy knows he’s being mocked. “Oh-Kay.”

“I’m not. I quit.”

He’s always got Billy’s back. Except. He’s never gonna yell for Billy. 

At least he pauses before leaving. 

Billy picks up the rice. Nibbles aimlessly at it. Reaches under he sink for the table salt there. His mom always kept table salt under the sink. Susan said it was dirty. Lets Buddy eat kidney beans from his palm. 

\--

Later. Days later. After messing around. Getting drunk on the last of the lavender vodka and making zero decisions. Billy’s glaring down at a new _facebook_ friend request that is glaring up at him from his phone. He doesn’t really believe in social media and he hasn’t posted to _Instagram_ since he got fat, but. He taps on the profile. She’s a friend of Marcellla. He rolls his eyes. Set up. Trying to get his attention. She’s pretty. He supposes. In the way all girls are pretty now. Like all of them. They’ve really upped their game. 

Billy stands in the hallway in his tank. Lifts his arm up strokes over the soft tawny hair under there.

Thinks about going to Maggiorani’s. 

Thinks about going to Steve’s.

Thinks about going to visit his mom. 

“What are you doing?”

At the crack of dawn, Susan had dropped Max off claiming that Neil had said that it was okay. She’s been lurking around most of the morning and Billy needs a break. He lets his arm fall heavily against his side. “I’m. Fucking.” He turns on her. “Jesus, Maxine. It’s none of your business.” He snatches up his keys, “You wanna go see these dweebs or not?”

The last time Billy sat in his _Camaro_ outside Harrington’s, he had to get high before going in. Max is rooting through her bag to see if she remembered her _Fila_ sliders. Which, Billy doesn’t think is necessary, but. He supposes he knows what’s it’s like when you’ve got something new and you wan’ people to see it and say it’s cute or. 

He chews at his thumbnail. Looks over his shoulder at Buddy sat patiently in the back seat. Billy doesn’t know what he did to deserve such a good dog, but man. Fifteen outta ten. He pulls his phone out, takes a picture. If Billy were, somebody who. If Billy were Steve, he might post it to _Twitter_.

Max says, “Are you gonna go to work tomorrow?”

Billy doesn’t look up from his phone. “No.”

“You won’t get paid.”

He does the zip up on her bag for her. “Look. Not that I have to explain anything to you, but. Did you see me? Did it look like I could do that job?”

She shrugs, “Yeah.”

He makes a derisive sound, cheek sucking against the side of his teeth. “It’s killing me Max.” He pulls up the edge of his loose running shorts. Revealing his knee all swollen and red. 

“You shouldn’t have driven.”

“What else we gonna do? Walk?” He sighs. “Go on. Get out.” 

Buddy, sensing his opportunity, cautiously clambers over the gear stick and settles into Max’s vacated spot. He seems delighted at the warmth, despite the summer heat surrounding them. Billy rubs at Buddy’s chin. Contemplates not going in. He knows it’s going to be weird. The last time he was here, he and Steve. And now. Steve’s got a bunch of locals in his backyard yard. Again. Like he’s running for mayor or some shit. 

Steve’s got some godawful rainbow-reflection sunglass on. “Oh, hey. You want a Mint Julep?”

“A what?”

He follows Steve into the kitchen, away from the shrieking kids splashing about in the pool and Max introducing Buddy to Lucas. Billy suspiciously eyes the breakfast bar. Sorta wants to sit down, but. A breakfast bar, Jesus. Also. He doesn’t trust his knee trying to clamber up on one of those stools. 

He stands awkwardly near Steve. Opens the fridge, closes it again. Steve turns his head towards him, but doesn’t look up from messing around with mint leaves and bourbon. “Didn’t you used to wear an earring?”

Billy twists his mouth. Surprised. Nods. “I had to take it out for surgery.”

He took everything off for surgery. Had kept his pendant on until the very last minute. The goddamn nurse had managed to break the clasp even when he said he’d store it safely and Billy had to go downtown to the nasty pawn shop-jewellers to get it fixed. 

Steve steps close to him. Kisses the shadow of Billy’s left marionette line. Hands him a cocktail that smells a lot like the Harrington house. Steve’s gold thumb ring clinks against the silver of Billy’s pinky signet, expensive glass between them. Takes a sip of him own. Slides his palm under the hem of Billy’s old and not at all ironic _Avicci_ tee. Tan skin glittering over Billy’s. “You’ve got a rash.”

“Hmm.” Billy considered bringing his own swim shorts to Steve’s. He’s got hundreds of the fuckers. Currency in California. Then decided against it. The pool is good for his knee, but bad for everything else. His hair is wrecked. 

Steve sidesteps closer, ducks his head to brush his nose over Billy’s neck. Steve breathes in like Billy smells sweet. “I like what we did.”

Billy sips at his own drink. It’s cold. Mouth parted to sip again and Steve’s there, cool lips pressing to Billy’s. Tasting almost bitter, mint leaf ground between his molars. Steve rubs at Billy’s belly, in a slow circle. He used to wax there and then. After everything stopped mattering. He didn’t. The hair there is all spiky and gross and Billy curves his spine, trying to move away. 

Steve doesn’t get the hint, so Billy takes his wrist and pushes him back. Smiles wanly. He’d never give Frank the courtesy, but something about Steve makes Billy feel like he has to remember his manners. _Sorry, bud_. Sorry. It was my fault. I’m too blame. But I’m being punished, aren’t I. Aren’t I. Puts his glass on the kitchen counter. 

Steve doesn’t let him get away with it. Takes a swallow before putting his glass next to Billy’s. He’s doing a good impression of Billy’s dad right now. Imma set this down, and we’ll talk. _Sorry, son_. Billy’s head feels. Shivery. Somebody turned a torch on back there and he feels weird. 

“You liked it too though, right?” Steve cups Billy’s jaw in his hands. 

Billy tries to breathe deeply. But the light is all. Ice-solid. In his throat. The roof of his mouth burns with _Booker’s_. He rasps, “You gotta let go of me, man.”

Steve does. ‘Cause he’s good. He’s a good adult. “You okay?”

Billy coughs. “Sure.”

Steve’s a good adult. A good host and moves them into the main lounge. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever been in this room before. The pale green of the entrance is echoed here alongside jade furniture. White side pillows. Billy sits down. Feels his knee settle, feels the pins ease. Steve says, “I was thinking. My sister’s a doctor. Maybe. I dunno, maybe.”

“What?”

“I dunno. You don’t have health insurance, right?”

Billy blushes. “I do. A bit.” Leans back. “Not any more.” He kicks off his flip-flops. His bare feet look sorta vulnerable propped up on the ottoman. Bones of his ankles sticking out, ugly. 

Steve pulls his leg up, so that he can face Billy. “What happened?”

“I quit my job.”

“Ah.” He props his elbow on the back of the sofa, leans his head on his fist. “You and Frank break-up?”

Billy tips his head, looks at Steve for a long time. Shuffles in a decidedly unsexy way, so that he can kiss the side of Steve’s bicep. Steve watches, strokes his hand over the back of Billy’s head. Sighs. 

Billy wonders how dumb it would be to try to suck Harrington off right now. Wonders if, actually. After everything. Any way. It’s all just dumb decisions. All just people and roads. And missed opportunities. And accidents. And fights. And lost jobs and dogs. He supposes. Being an adult is the fucking worst. 

Steve lets him. Either ‘cause Steve is fucking desperate. Away from all that college ass. Or. He figures Billy’s been worked in pretty good by Frank. Billy thinks maybe this is pretty good. As he sucks at the soft plain of Steve’s hair-free tummy. Thinks, maybe. This is nice as he fiddles pulling down Steve’s swim trunks. Thinks, Christ. Fuck, as he sucks Steve down. Gags as the head of his dick pushes at the back of his throat. His eyes watering, he keeps going. Doesn’t look up, even when Steve runs his fingers through his curls, pulling, trying to get him to pause. 

He pulls his shirt off and lets Steve come on his chest. Which, hadn’t been the plan. But the Mint Julep suddenly hit and Billy didn’t feel up to swallowing. He licks his top lip. Watches Steve try to recover his breathing. “C’m here.”

Billy shakes his head. Folds his arm over his stomach, doesn’t want Steve looking at him. Steve reaches out, swipes his thumb over the curve of Billy’s pec’. Muscle cuddled under new weight. Thumbs at his own spunk, brings it to his mouth. Tongue sucking at his gold ring. 

Billy turns his back to Steve, lays down with his head in Steve’s lap. Pulls a white pillow over him. Hears Steve say, “Imma get you back.”

Hears himself say, “Okay.” Isn’t sure if he says outloud how he’s in so much fucking pain he doesn’t think he’ll ever want anyone to touch him ever again. 

Billy dreams about Walt Disney. About Tom Hanks as Walt Disney. Dreams that Tom Hanks is telling him off for quitting his job. Tom Hanks in that Walt Disney pencil moustache. His minds feels warped, like that half-breath of a guitar-pick silence in a country song. 

He wakes up alone. Wakes up, with his spine creeping. He’s somehow forming some real bad habits in the Harrington house. He leaves in a hush. Before Steve can notice. It’s for the best. 

\--

Steve has been banging in Billy’s door for five minutes. Intermediately calling him.

“Fuck off,” Billy growls from the couch. Buddy agrees. 

He’s in cozy short short sweats and his loose thick gym socks and is really invested in some awfully obnoxious girl comedian on _Netflix_. Marcella would like her. 

Billy is well aware that he’s depressed. Having a depressive episode. Whatever. He’d accidently-deliberately taken an extra pill and Buddy is a warm blanket on him and he’s feeling pretty fucking good. Despite everything. 

He’s drinking his second _Arizona_ iced tea in the hour. _Mucho Mango_. Plucking at the thick hem of his _Champion_ sweater. It’s really too warm for it. But it feels snug, all moulded to his sides. He doesn’t want to get up to answer the door. The buzzer goes, like Steve is pretending to be someone else. Buddy looks at him. All wide eyed. 

Billy groans. Groans all the way to the door. And groans again at the sight of Steve in his _Ray-Bans_ , lofting a bag of Vego-Go in the air. Steve pushes his way past Billy. Gives Buddy a friendly pat hello. “So, look. I know you’re going through-“ he waves his hand at the mess in Billy’s living room “-a thing. So I brought quinoa salad and jumbo smoothies.”

Billy shuffles back to the couch. Sits next to Steve who’s unloading his loot. Fucking, whatever that guy’s name was. That guy on that show about extreme weight-loss. “You’re not meant to buy quinoa.”

Steve stops slurping at an 18oz strawberry blitz. “What?”

“It’s ruining the economy of Bolivia.”

“What?”

“It’s. You know. Communities spend all their resources exporting it and then …” He notices Steve is staring at him. “Oh. What. So you can run your mouth about housing welfare and the ecological damage of concrete, but as soon as I know something-“

Steve pecks his cheek. Billy feels his smile. “Man. You’re cute. Tell me more.”

“Shuddup.”

Steve runs his finger over the fluffy edge of Billy’s moustache. Thicker now. “My brother says you used to go to Georgie’s.”

Fuck. Hawkins is such a small fucking town. “Sometimes.”

“You wanna go?”

“Not really.” He prods at his salad with the free bamboo forks the place gives away. Through a mouthful of sharp-ridged spinach says, “Your brother’s gay, right?”

Steve snorts. “Yeah. You like him?” Licks at the el, sarcastic i. Shoves his elbow into Billy’s ribs. “He’s married, y’know.”

“I know.” Billy grunts, curls away from Steve. “That’s not what I meant.” He puts his plastic bowl on the coffee table. He’s too full of warm ice tea to eat anything. “I just.” He rubs his fingertips over his tummy, slides them just slightly under his waistband.

“C’mon. What?”

In a rush, trying to get it all out before he can second-guess himself. “Frank says it’s gay, but Georgie isn’t and they play all this indie-folk. So. Nobody else think it’s a” He tucks his chin into his chest. Scratches at Buddy’s spine. “Queer barbershop.”

Steve flicks quinoa off his chin. Rests his elbows on his knees. “So what if it was?” Curious frown forming.

Billy shrugs. 

Steve sits back. They watch the young woman on Billy’s laptop say something about how women are deceitful, but it’s funny. ‘Cause she’s growling into the mic, stomping around in heeled boots. ‘Cause she’s female. Steve guesses. He’s doesn’t fucking know. He’s pouting when he says, “Man. I hated you, I really did. But I was always so worried.” He crosses his ankle over his thigh. “You’d turn up to school looking all. Exhausted. And Aaron would say all this stuff about you liking it rough and Nancy would make some weird comment about your dad. And I never wanted to ask.” He bites his lip. Says through his teeth. Unsure if it’s true. “‘Cause I hated you.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t worry, I hated you too.”

Steve leans over, kisses Billy’s shoulder. Rubs his hand along his collarbone. “It wasn’t just basketball.”

Billy breathes heavily out through his nose. “No.” Turns so that he can touch the tip to the freckles on Steve’s cheek. “It was. It was just basketball. I just. I was dumb and scared and. It doesn’t matter now.”

Steve supposes that’s true. He doesn’t know what to suggest. What he can offer. Doesn’t know how the world might work for somebody like Billy and doesn’t want to presume. Nancy would probably be better at this than him. Maybe ‘cause she’s a girl. Maybe ‘cause of her mom. Steve closes his eyes. Sucks at the thin skin behind Billy’s ear. 

He pulls back, passes Billy his salad. Thinks about how in Hawkins he feels so. Adult. Feels so in control. But when it comes down to it, when it matters. He’s just a kid. Just a college kid. Who can’t help. 

They carry on watching Iliza Shlesinger, letting _Netflix_ autoplay through her rolodex of stand-up specials. Steve finishes Billy’s salad for him, while Billy slowly sips at his strawberry and jalapeno smoothie. At one point, Buddy puts his paws on Steve’s feet and Steve gets up to pour kibble into his bowl. 

The sky is flat-dark, moonless, but it’s still early when Steve ushers Billy into the bathroom to brush their teeth. He sets Billy down on the closed toilet seat. Tips his chin up, careful not to nudge the toothbrush too far back into his mouth. Billy passively lets _Arm and Hammer_ foam build up and dribble down his jaw, letting Steve dab at him with a face cloth. 

It’s intimate. It’s responsible. It’s not hot, but damn if Billy doesn’t know what he’s doing with the way he’s staring at Steve. All baby blues gone sleepy. Those too thick lashes lining his lids that fall and open as Steve angles his head, _sorry, baby doll_. 

Steve settles them into bed. Billy’s bed is all Aztec-print blankets and random sized pillows to support his knee. Steve switches the little nightlight on. Billy clears his throat. Delicately shifts his hips to accommodate his knee on the pillowpile Steve has squished together. Steve turns onto his side, itches his nose against Billy’s bicep. Feels himself drifting off into a nap-like sleep. Not quite deep enough.

He wakes up, frowning. But smiles, digging the heel of his hand into his eye when he realises it’s the sound of Billy snoring that’s woken him up. Billy’s mouth is wide open. Pink lips slightly dry. He switches the light off, its glow muted and eerie in the early morning sun. 

He pushes his hand under Billy’s shirt, pitterpatters his fingertips over Billy’s areola. Gently bumps his forehead into Billy’s chin. His mouth closes as he turns his head. His own sudden quiet wakes him and he swallows, looks down at Steve. Rasps, “M’nin’.”

Steve grins and murmurs, “Good morning, sunshine.”

Billy rolls his head on his neck, snuggling into the pillow. Smiling ruefully. “St’pid.”

Steve takes his chance. Kisses Billy, still morning careful. One peck, two. “How’s your knee?”

“Hmm.” Billy wraps his arm around Steve’s waist, pulling him between his legs. Blankets shifting this way and that. “Good. It’s good.” He awkwardly reaches across to the bedside table, taking his pills. Sips day-old water from the plastic beaker. “Good,” he says. Kisses Steve back, all spacey, like he’s still asleep. Not aware of his movements. 

Steve squeezes Billy’s thighs. Excitedly pushes closer, pushes his tongue into Billy’s mouth at the low, happy sound he makes. He pulls at Billy’s shorts, carefully manoeuvres them over Billy’s knee. Billy’s cheeks are red. His ears too. Steve kisses his cheek. “Hey, it’s good.”

Billy nods. It is. It is good. Steve feels good. He’s. Bulkier than when they used to play basketball together. Billy knows he’s bulkier too. But it’s different. He’s weightier. Not enough gentle exercise. Too much getting high and burning his knee into the ground over long shifts at the pizza parlour. 

He feels too hot. Pulls his t-shirt over his head. Gets Steve’s off too. Stretches his fingers over Steve’s shoulders. Smoothes them over where he knows that fucking ugly tattoo is. Pinches the skin there, bites at the edge of Steve’s mouth. 

Steve asks. Which is nice. “You wanna? Or?”

And Billy gets it. Shakes his head. Rubs his cheek against Steve’s. Scrapes his teeth on his ear lobe. “No. No, just fuck me.”

Reaches does under the bed for condoms.

“’Kay. Whatever you want. Anything, Jesus.” Steve sucks hard and dirty at the side of Billy’s neck. His ring is warm where his thumb rests on Billy’s hip. 

The scent of lube is somewhat clinical, but it’s frosted vanilla. He didn’t buy it. He’d rather Frank had bought the organic shit he’d asked for, but. Frank’s a bitch. Steve isn’t shy about it, generously dribbles the stuff over his dick. Billy doesn’t help, watches as Steve slicks his fist around his shaft. Billy doesn’t think of Frank. Thinks instead about how the sweetness of Steve’s motion, the smell of cake batter reminds him of Steve’s crap Christmas moisturizer abandoned in his toiletry bag. Like he’s just passing through Hawkins. Going back to Rye. Returning to the ocean. 

It’s the calmest fuck Billy’s ever had. Like Steve is out on the surf. Watching the wave like he’s watching Billy. Waiting for it to peak before moving. Heavy concentration. Heavy, deep thrusts that make Billy feel like he’s being carried by the sea. 

There’s a simple, wooden cross on the wall over the bed and when Frank would visit, it would tap continuously back and forth. A challenge set and met. It’s still now. He takes a deep breath, focuses on Steve filling him. Closes his eyes. Holds on tight to Steve’s forearms. 

He hears Buddy putter into the room. Hears his doggy panting mingle with the sound of Steve and he can’t help by giggle. Steve sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, happy teeth showing, kisses Billy’s nose. “Christ, I thought you’d never make any noise.”

Billy lifts his good leg up higher, knee digging into the centre of Steve’s spine. Cheekily squeezes Steve’s right ass cheek. Laughs louder as taken by surprise Steve gasps. Pelvis stuttering. “Fuck.” He goes to pull out, but Billy hooks his arms around Steve’s back, nuzzles at his face. Arches up, pressing his dick against Steve. Steve lets him, rolls his palm over the head before jerking him properly. It’s nice. 

Steve rolls off him. Buddy jumps up onto the bed. Billy twists, lays his head on Steve’s tummy. “This is nice.” Breath hot and kinda gross delicious on his tongue. Steve tangles his fingers in Billy’s curls. Tugs, grounding. 

He wakes up again with his knee screaming. He grabs his pills. Fumbles for a cigarette too for good measure. Steve and Buddy aren’t around. He hobbles gracelessly, coughing around filthy smoke. “Shut the fuck up,” he gripes at Steve’s judgemental face from where he’s pouring mugs of coffee. 

Steve shrugs. Digs the spatula into the pan of scrambled eggs. Billy sits down heavily at the tiny kitchen table. Swigs at the carton of orange juice Steve has put out. “Where did this all come from?”

“Went to the store.”

Billy sighs. Steve brings over plates of eggs and biscuits. Ketchup too. He leans forward, smoothes his thumbs over Billy’s eyebrows, brushing his hair back behind his ears, tidying him up. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.” He gestures at the kitchen. “For this.” ‘Cause it’s really more than Billy thinks he deserves. 

Steve just smiles and rubs the arch of his foot along Billy’s calf. 

After that, it’s all hustle. “Fuck, Harrington. Where are we going?”

“To the gym,” like it’s obvious. 

“I can’t.” His mouth open too wide over the a, like a child not wanting to go to school. He gestures at his knee. It’s been swollen for two days. He should probably go to the hospital. 

In the car, he’s sulking about it. Thinking, just cause you’re hot and I let you fuck me. Now you’re all bossy. Bitch. He takes control of Steve’s playlist outta spite. That shitty _Zayn_ album, like don’t fucking talk to me. Steve snorts at him and Buddy huffs. 

Steve’s gym is his parents gym, the gym his brothers go to. It’s expensive. But the guy on the front desk says Buddy can come in and hang out if he can get a cuddle. From the dog, not Steve. Billy doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t really want HIT-bro chilling with Buddy. But Buddy’s cool and doesn’t mind, so. What can he do. 

They spend a good twenty minutes on the elliptical and Billy begrudgingly gives Steve this win. 

“Billy!” 

“Hello, Karen.”

She’s in polkadot leggings and Billy wishes she were anywhere but here. “How’s your mother?”

“Fine.” He grits his teeth.

“And your knee! Look at you, at the gym.” Karen tucks loose strands of sweaty hair back under her headband. 

Steve says, “We’re just heading to the sauna, Mrs Wheeler.”

She waves her hands. “Of course, of course. Heat is good for injuries.” She nods sagely. “Billy. I’ll tell Louis you say, ‘hi’.”

“Sure thing.” He puffs his cheeks up without thinking. “Thanks, Karen.” 

She gives him a pointless hug with too much distance between them. “I don’t want to get sweat all on you!”

In the close heat of the sauna, Steve smirks at him. Ruffles his hair. Pulls his head back and wipes his damp face all over Billy’s. 

\--

Billy’s never told anyone, but he loves going to the movies. After the _Pixar Cars_ incident, Billy never told anyone about stuff he likes. Or he tried to. People. Neil. Have a way of finding shit like that out and ruining it. 

Steve had said, “Let’s go see Eighth Grade.” Like he somehow knew that’s the kinda crap Billy’s into. 

And Billy said, “Dogs can’t come.” Trying to hide that it’s exactly the kinda crap Billy wants to see in the theatre. All micro-expressions blown-up massive. 

Steve convinces him to let Dustin, the kid with the wild hair under a bad trucker hat, look after Buddy for the night. So he takes his time. Gets dolled up. 

Flick-swishes through _Spoify_. _Gambino, Frank Ocean_ , fucking _Ariana_ up loud. Feels hot with anticipation. Gets the hot wax out. Showers long and slow, using a _Lush_ shower jelly which is ridiculous and was expensive and smells like the beach and lemon icey pops and makes him feel like he could probably run a coupla laps. 

He pulls on his nicest jeans. These soft desert boots that he’s wearing lil ankle socks under. Makes the effort to put his earrings back in. Delicate silver studs in each lobe. Feels like a bitch in front of the hall mirror, but tries to ignore that as he opens the door to Steve. 

“Hey, you look cute.”

He looks Steve up and down and doesn’t judge Steve’s cropped lilac chinos. 

In the food court, Steve buys him a donut powdered with sugar. Sticks in his tongue into the side of his cheek, lewd, when Billy gets it everywhere. 

Steve holds his hand through the movie. Squeezes during the intense bits. Kisses the back of his hand as the credits roll. 

“I liked the soundtrack.”

“Yeah?”

Steve’s still holding his hand. Has taken the other too. They’re stood outside the mall, like they’re waiting for someone to pick them up. Like, they’re thirteen again. Like, anything could happen. Like, there’s still time.


End file.
